


The Unceasing Shadow

by deactivatedaio



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22182670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deactivatedaio/pseuds/deactivatedaio
Summary: A Warden's work is never done - but if the Calling is cured and the Blight is removed, is a Warden still a Warden?
Relationships: Zevran Arainai & Female Mahariel, Zevran Arainai & Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Female Elf Warden, Zevran Arainai/Female Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> (Header image by the talented @hisonae on Tumblr!)  
> (This work NSFW throughout.)

Ban was bone-deep tired. Her dark circles were beginning to look more like war paint and were only getting worse. Spending so much time in the Dark Roads recently had made her nightmares more vivid and visceral, harder to shake when she woke. The shrieks of darkspawn hordes, the stench of death, the oppressive foreboding of an evil made real by the perversion of life - they clawed at her mind in her sleep, gouging so deep that she could find no rest.

Through downcast eyes, ashen brown and smudged with black around the lashes, she watched the foam on her ale swirl like wispy summer clouds. It obviously had been too long since she’d had time to watch the clouds float by, she mused, because in reality they looked nothing like ale foam. It had been too long since a lot of things.

The tavern held light and life, so she tried to focus on the sounds of people’s raucous laughter, sharp curses, and muttered conversations instead of the turmoil in her head. The tavern itself was nowhere important - half-way between the Hunterhorn Mountains and the Anderfels. However, it was the only watering hole or inn nearby to a handful of mining communities, small farmsteads, and a fairly successful armory, so it was always busy with patrons. 

The din of the tavern ebbed and flowed, a comfortable blanket of noise that surrounded her as she wrote a letter to an old friend. One forearm was curled protectively around her tankard of ale to keep it safe from the exuberant gesticulations of a nearby city elf. The quill in her hand scratched a message onto the vellum in loosely-connected script.

_“In closing, I wish you luck. This world of the shemlen is a difficult one for our kind, and I can only imagine the pressure of leading the Inquisition, an organization dedicated to the Chantry, while staying true to the Way of the Three Trees. May Mythal protect you in your quest, and Andruil bless your hunt._

_\-- Warden-Commander Baninion Mahariel”_

Ban rolled the note into a tight cylinder, tying it securely with a thin strip of leather before she stood, carrying her tankard with her to a window that faced the narrow alley behind the tavern. Perched on the sill was a small, fat crow with a tuft of crimson feathers on its back. It tilted its head at her, dark eyes peering curiously into her own. She looped the leather cord around one of its legs and pulled it gently taut, effectively securing her note to the animal. With a soft squawk, it shook itself out, then spread its wings and disappeared into the dark night sky.

Turning away from the window, Ban lifted the tankard to her lips and took a sip. A cut at the corner of her mouth stung dully when the ale first hit it, but the sting had dissipated by the time she settled back down onto her stool at the bar. The little pains were constant, everywhere and unceasing: a soreness in her back and shoulders from pulling her bow string over and over; a thin, healing cut across one forearm from a blade sharp enough to penetrate her armor’s hardened leather; a still-pink scar on her shoulder where the point of a lance impacted against bone. No matter how she healed, she’d never be entirely whole, not really. Not that it would matter if she didn’t succeed at her current goal.

Her gaze rested on the drink in her hand and she breathed slowly and deliberately, consciously focusing on relaxing her muscles. She nursed her ale, not yet ready to exile herself for the night and head to her rented room.

No one had recognized her here, thank the Maker. People thought of the Hero of Fereldan, the legendary Grey Warden, as a larger-than-life figure. By comparison, she was only an elf, slight of build and unassuming. Her intricate indigo vallaslin identified her as Dalish, and her deep black hair was haphazardly gathered into a low bun. She’d been mistaken for a servant or a prostitute more often than for a warrior. Most people even missed the bow and quiver usually slung over her shoulders. She had no beauty, no softness, no lovely clothes or shiny armor - nothing worth a second look. Her body was all taut muscle, and her skin, once sun-warmed golden, was etched with scars and given a pallor by her exhaustion and time below ground. Even her clan wouldn’t have recognized her now. The honey-haired babe that still had both a father and a mother had grown up, her coloring darkening even as her soul blackened with the weight of her decisions. No one who had killed as many people, who’d lost as many people, as Ban had could come out of the experience any way other than marred.

Ban blew a stream of air into the tankard, making the bubbles pop and dance, struggling to keep her thoughts from continuing to spiral down into despair. Part of the problem was academic, she knew - she was unused to being alone, even after the last eleven years since she’d parted ways with her companions. They all had work to do, people to save, and Ban was no different. Although the Blight was long over, the Calling remained, marking every Warden for death. Thirty years or so. She’d burned through most that already, and was in no rush to get to the end. After slaying the Archdemon, Ban had made a promise: she refused to let the Calling catch up to her, to Alistair, or to any Warden. Not if she could stop it, and she’d spent years trying to discover a way to do exactly that.

Finally, only a handful of weeks prior, she’d made a discovery. An augur who had been helping her investigate darkspawn and the ritual that each Warden undertook - the Joining - made a breakthrough in understanding the primal magic carried in their blood. A few months back, Ban unearthed an ancient Warden camp that dated to barely after the First Blight, hidden so far into the Deep Roads that they were less “roads” and more “vague paths carved through stone”. It had contained little more than rusted iron and rotted wood, but someone had buried a journal there, perhaps to preserve it for their eventual return. Wrapped in vellum and sealed with wax, the writing had contained information about the Blight, about the corruption of the blood, and about the way the Wardens had originally stumbled upon the ritual of the Joining.

The augur, in attempting to replicate the original ritual steps, had been able to isolate the magical corruption from the life essence carried in the darkspawn blood. Almost like distilling the essence of a plant, the reversal of the ritual pulled the corruption out of the blood. Now, he was working on a way to dispel it or destroy it - a task proving just as difficult as expected. Though neither of them knew if it would work on a living darkspawn, much less a Warden, it was still progress. If Ban could only keep moving forward, keep looking, she would be able to find something. She had to. The only place left to look was back in the Deep Roads, in an ancient Thaig only mentioned in legend. By sunrise, Ban would be setting off again to find it, to see what secrets lay buried there, hoping one of them would save her - save all the Wardens - and finally, give her peace.

Ban was taking another slow sip of her ale when the back of her neck prickled, her senses suddenly on high alert. She kept her body language relaxed even as her muscles tensed, forearms braced on the bar. Purposefully setting down her drink with a lazy, careless “clunk”, Ban was preparing to confront the person who had intruded on her personal space when a hand came around her middle from behind.

She released her breath all at once in an exasperated stream as a second hand slid over and around her rib cage, holding her securely against the solid heat of the body at her back. Slim, elegant fingers, burnished bronze stark against her muslin tunic, splayed wide. Her eyes closed briefly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite her annoyance, her fists unclenching.

“Waiting for me?” His words were warm against her neck and he nuzzled the crook of her jaw. 

“Naturally.” Ban turned her head, bringing her face a whisper from his. He grinned at her but did not close the distance, his arms still holding her close. “You almost got that pretty nose knocked out of place, Zev,” she murmured, the chastisement reflecting effortlessly off of the veneer of his practiced charm.

“A calculated risk I assure you, amor.” His grip on her midsection loosened enough to allow her to turn to face him fully and she stood, bringing her body flush against his. He dipped his head to press his face to her hair again, sighing contentedly. 

“Zevran,” she said firmly, fighting to keep the amusement out of her voice. Because she had more to say to him before he got distracted - and well aware that they were standing in the middle of a bar where Zevran’s usual style of distraction would be highly inappropriate - Ban rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and gave him a gentle shove.

He lifted his head once more, the expression on his face comically wounded. “You would deny me my singular worldly comfort? After so many weeks away?”

“You have many worldly comforts,” Ban replied, her hands sliding down his arms to rest just above his wrists, “and you’ve been gone barely six weeks.” Again, she had to force herself to remain strong against his pleading gaze, designed specifically to get her resolve to crack. _Don’t encourage him, don’t encourage him,_ she repeated to herself, knowing full well than in the last ten years, she’d rarely won this particular battle.

“Six eternal, sleepless, desperate weeks! Full of longing, suffering from the lack of you,” Zevran made to tug her close again but Ban stepped back, still loosely holding his wrists. Instead, she led him toward a table in the corner of the room. He huffed but acquiesced, dropping melodramatically into a chair. “If you insist, but this location,” he raised an eyebrow and glanced around at the tavern, “leaves much to be desired for what I have in mind.”

“My sincerest apologies. What you have in mind will have to wait.” When he opened his mouth to protest, Ban rolled her eyes and attempted to walk past him to the other seat at the table, but he snagged her by the waist and pulled her unceremoniously into his lap instead. She sat with her body perpendicular to his, her feet barely brushing the floor, and he looped his arms around her midsection again. Giving in, Ban settled herself, wiggling slightly more than necessary as she did so. His eyes narrowed fractionally, gaze darkening, so she stilled, smothering a grin. Perhaps now was not the best time to vex him; he had been away for quite some time, after all.

She was uncomfortable with blatant physical displays in a public place, but over the years had become accustomed to them. Such displays were Zevran’s way of telling everyone else, and therefore his way of telling her, how he felt. Ban had learned that this kind of thing was important to him, so she let him indulge occasionally, even though she had never quite gotten used to the sideways glances of others.

“I am glad you’re back, Zev. I missed you, too,” she said, finally gracing him with a small smile as she brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. 

He raised a hand, freeing the lock that had been struggling to stay tied back. “Tell me how much.” The back of his hand stroked gently over her cheek as he twisted the hair around his finger, and she subconsciously leaned into it. His grin reappeared and he cupped her face in his palm. 

“Very.” She let him guide her face to his, but held back just before their lips touched. “Did you kill him?” she asked quietly.

Unable to resist the chance to gloat, Zev’s hand fell away and he sat back. His countenance brightened as he answered. “In fact, I did! The Venatori in Antiva has been efficiently removed from play. Removed from Antiva entirely, as it were,” he explained, methodically pulling the pins out of the bun at her nape, gesticulating with them as he did so. “I received word from my contacts that they found him dead from a demon attack somewhere in the forests of the Exalted Plains.”

“Mm. How unfortunate,” Ban added, patiently allowing him to undo her hair and spread it carefully across her shoulders and back. 

He swished and fluffed the black waves that only barely grazed her collar bone, arranging them until he looked content with their aesthetic layout, nodding once. “Quite. Leliana assures me that the Inquisiton is very pleased, although the Crows did take credit for the assassination.” Zevran sighed, impatiently waving her pins in dismissal. He shook his head and gave her his best long-suffering expression. “One simply cannot win with assassins, as you are no doubt well aware.”

Ban made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement, focused on snagging the pins from him, fully intending on rolling her hair back into a knot at the earliest opportunity. Once she’d snatched them, Zev continued to play with the strands about her shoulders idly, his other arm still keeping her held close. She watched him with amusement as he launched into his “freelance assassins just aren’t appreciated anymore” speech, soaking up the sound of his voice and the feel of him. It hadn’t been a lie when she said she’d missed him - he brought her a sense of comfort and distraction from the dark things that lurked at the edges of her thoughts. He always had. So she half-listened, occasionally nodding or making an appropriately timed interjection, taking a small moment to luxuriate in him.

At some point he must have noticed that she wasn’t entirely focused on their one-sided conversation because his story cut short. “Ah, but we have more important things to discuss, yes?” His fingers slid up and he stroked her scalp, pressing into the small muscles at the base of her skull. Ban couldn’t help the shudder that shot through her at the sensation of the tension there melting. He laughed, and when she swatted his hand away, he simply gave her a self-satisfied look. 

Thinking about what had to be done next sharpened any softness Zevran had coaxed out of her since he’d arrived. Immediately businesslike, she answered his rhetorical question. “We do, actually. Tomorrow I hope to reach the entrance to the oldest part of the Deep Roads,” she explained, beginning to twist her hair back up. 

In response, Zev caught her and linked her fingers with his, stealing the pins again and tucking them into a pocket out of sight. She knew she wouldn’t be getting them back. Much like the black bird whose name he’d kept for most of his life, he had a habit of collecting small baubles that were meaningful in some way, regardless of their actual value. He probably had enough of her hairpins secreted away at this point to make himself a full set of chainmail armor. 

“I’m serious,” she continued. “This will be dangerous, and I may not find anything of use down there. If I don’t…” she trailed off with a sigh. “I fear I may be out of options.”

Zevran lifted their clasped hands and kissed the back of hers. “There is always an option, my lovely Grey Warden. It will be very straightforward, no? We go into the Deep Roads, we find the site of the original Joining, we collect everything worth collecting, and then we return home! Very simple.”

“I strongly doubt it will be that simple, Zev,” Ban retorted, weariness making the words some across harsher than she intended, so she made an effort to gentle her tone. “Even if it were, what home would you have us return to?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Where would you like to call home, amor?”

Good question. “The last home I had was with my clan,” she thought aloud. “I have never known another; I certainly have no intention on going back there, even if I knew where they had migrated.” She peered at him. “Where would you go, Zev? Antiva?”

They had been to Antiva together only twice since the Blight ended. The first time was for work - he was following up a lead for their first expedition into the Deep Roads - and the second time... well. It was definitely not for work, although they were both very tired by the end of their week-long stay. 

Zev considered the question for only a second. “Perhaps. I do miss the cries of the gulls, the salt of the sea that perfumes the air, the flavorsome food, the supple silks and leathers,” he cast a glance at her under his lashes, “the supple people.”

Ban snorted. “No? Truly? I would never have guessed,” she snarked, giving it her best Morrigan-impression. He flashed white teeth at her in what she believed was the perfect example of a wolfish grin. “I miss the forest,” Ban added, half to herself, “but I wouldn’t mind going to Antiva again,” she mused.

“We did have such a good time when last we visited…” he trailed off deliberately, tracing his fingers languidly up and down her spine from where his hand rested at the small of her back, a suggestion and a promise.

In retaliation as much as because her legs were beginning to fall asleep, Ban twisted her hips against him, slowly and deliberately. His brows rose, but he made no attempt to stop her when she slid off. Although he still clasped her hand, he remained reclined in his seat, watching her from under heavy-lidded eyes, the effect she’d had on him clear enough. For a moment they studied each other, and she marveled that even draped in a rough wooden chair, he managed to look dangerous. She wondered what he saw in her - exhaustion and resignation, most likely. 

The thought had her sighing, turning away from him and tugging free of his grip, weaving her way to the back stairs. The chair scraped as he stood. “No use thinking about what may or may not be until after we get back, I suppose. Anyway,” she continued briskly, “I have a room on the top floor that does have a small window. Not that we’d need it here. Hopefully,” she said, and she cast a glance over her shoulder at him, making sure he was, in fact, following her. More than once she’d realized she’d been talking to herself since, unbeknownst to her, he had disappeared into a crowd without a sound. Usually, he reappeared holding a trinket or a treat - sometimes, he showed up much later, wiping blood from his boots. Either way, she had learned to keep an eye on him most of the time, not that it was unpleasant to do so. He was beautiful to look at.

Thankfully, this time he was behind her, though he was in no rush to keep up. “Any room will do nicely at the moment,” he said, snagging her by the waist of her breeches, “so long as you are in it.” He paused, looking thoughtful, causing them both to still amidst the meandering tavern patrons. Ban watched him expectantly, half-pivoted away from him, one dark brow raised. He leveled a stare at her, expression completely serious. “Naked.”

Her laugh surprised her. It felt rusty and foreign in her throat. Had she laughed at all since he’d left? Probably not. Still, hearing it brightened Zev’s face, changing it from sly to truly pleased in an instant. When she turned fully to face him, the grip he had on her waistband didn’t loosen, his arm coiling around her hips. Ban didn’t mind - he’d snuck a laugh out of her, after all. He deserved a reward.

Ban rose up on her toes, slid a hand over the back of his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek, just below the sharp black lines of his tattoos. One inch more and she would have caught his mouth, but before he could turn his head, she broke away from him and dashed up the stairs.

His laugh followed her as she ran, taking the steps two at a time. Once she’d reached the room, she stepped into it quickly, shutting the door behind her as quietly as possible and flipping the lock. Then she held her breath and waited.

Zevran was still a master assassin. Although it had been quite some time since he’d hunted and killed people for a living, he still used his skills to aid her on her quests. More than once he’d cleared out a cavern full of darkspawn before she even set foot inside, methodically and silently, one by one, without ever raising an alarm. He was good - but there was one thing at which he was better.

With her back to the wall next to the door, Ban kept herself completely still, listening carefully. She heard no footsteps in the hall outside, no creaking of the floor beyond the threshold of the room. Her gaze darted to the small window, and she cursed silently. Shit. She’d mentioned the window. Maybe she could still reach the lock in time.

She snuck around the edge of the room until she came to just beside the window. No sounds came from outside. 

Not even the sound of the wind - because someone was blocking it.

Ban ducked under the windowsill just as the cloudy glass pane slid open. First one leg appeared, then a second, her body crouched just behind them. Gracefully and fluidly as water, Zevran climbed through. As he stood in front of her, he scanned the room nonchalantly, as though he hadn’t just scaled a small building and broken in. She heard him heave a long-suffering sigh as she pulled herself up incrementally, not a breath or a rustle of fabric giving away her position. 

“Very clever,” came his voice, serene and hushed in the dim room. “Shall I turn around? Or do you wish to accost me from behind?” Ban could almost hear the saucy look on his face. As good as she was at hunting, she made terrible prey. Damn it.

Mimicking his movements from earlier, Ban slid her arms around his midsection, bringing herself evenly against him. Like he had, she brought her face close his, her mouth below his ear. He laid his arms over hers and hummed tunelessly, like the purr of a large cat.

When she whispered, his gold hair fluttered with her words. “What would you have me do?”

He spun around, forcing her to step back once, twice, her back bumping up against the wall. A breeze floated in the open window, carrying with it the scent of forest and wet stone, the sounds of the tavern below them. He pressed against her, both palms flat against the wall on either side of her shoulders, his body becoming a cage for hers. Ban only watched him, trying to look aloof even as the flush crept up her chest and neck.

“It has been six weeks,” he said, voice soft and deceptively casual, “and still, you torment me.” One of his hands lifted from the wall and came to the base of her throat, so gently she could scarcely feel it, his fingers barely curling around her. His face came close to hers as he spoke, assessing her, unblinking. His eyes were bright in the darkness, and she could not look away, could not move away, if her life depended on it. And he knew it.

“What would you have me do?” Ban repeated, voice low and almost inaudible.

Zevran tilted his head slightly to the side as though considering the request, reminding her of the messenger crow earlier. How very appropriate.

“What if I told you,” he finally answered, “that the only thing I require, that I crave in all the world,” he halted, and that pause was heavy with the weight of her anticipation, his fingers stroking her neck in a mockery of the danger that came when his hands were usually around someone’s throat. He drew out the pause for one more breath before continuing, “was a kiss?”

Her inhale was shaky, and she was glad the gloomy room hid the fierce blush that, at that point, must have suffused her from scalp to sternum. Although he could have easily closed the distance and taken her mouth for himself, he simply waited. She gazed back at him, knowing her hold on her self-control was growing more tenuous with each inhale. When the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk, Ban had had enough.

Without any pretense, Ban leaned forward, caught his mouth with hers, and bit down firmly on his lower lip. So rarely did she make such a bold move that Zevran, momentarily caught off guard, relaxed into her with a deep, satisfied sound - and just as suddenly, she ducked under his arm and shot toward the other side of the room, hoping to get the bulk of the bed between them.

Finally, she could tell he was getting frustrated which pleased her to no end. Ban swore he actually growled when she evaded him, his grab for her just a second too slow. She laughed again, but it caught in her throat when she found herself captured. He had moved so quickly she hadn’t had time to react, one arm locking around her chest as he swept her legs out from under her, his other arm catching her. He lifted her then, and abruptly and ungracefully, he dropped her on the bed. Before she’d had time to bounce, he was over her.

“You,” he punctuated the word by tugging her tunic up, baring her stomach, “are a very poor listener.” One hand slipped under the fabric and he held her down, palm to her sternum. His thumb stroked the side of her breast as he settled himself atop her, his thighs bracketing hers, holding himself up with one arm. His hair fell forward, curtaining his face, and she knew he felt her heart racing under his hand.

His head dipped down to hers. Again, he simply hovered there, their lips nearly touching. “Shall we try this again?”

Never once had Zevran taken something from her that was not freely, gladly offered. He may coax and tease, but never once did he pressure or bully. This, more than anything, endeared him to her the moment she decided to spend the night in his tent. And she loved him for it still.

Ban lifted her arms, wrapped them around his neck, and drew him down the fraction of an inch it took to kiss him. Her mouth rubbed over his, and like a candle flaring to life, his entire demeanor changed. She felt the curve of his lips just before he plundered her mouth, the hand on her chest sliding down, hooking onto her breeches. She felt him tug, and she lifted her hips. She tasted his laugh as she wriggled out of them. When she was free, he shifted, and she made a short, harsh noise of disapproval at the loss of him.

He chuckled. “Patience.” 

In response, she whipped her tunic off and tossed it at him - which he caught, smirking - then laid herself back against the pillow. She regarded him silently as he quickly and efficiently divested himself of clothes, and when he was done, she raised a hand for him, both a request and a welcome.

Once more he came over her, this time with her thighs outside his hips. Once more she drew him down, surrounding herself with the feel of him. He kissed her, long and thorough, petting and stroking her anywhere he could reach. When he lifted his head, she saw more than pleasure on his face - she saw peace.

“I did so miss you, my love,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion and desire. Then he kissed her again and slipped two fingers into her, his mouth smothering her gasp. She hadn’t noticed that his hand had been slowly creeping down her body, tracing patterns over her stomach, her hips, until coming to rest lightly over the apex of her thighs. Her hips tilted and her legs widened automatically, and he slicked a finger over her sensitive flesh before pulling his touch back. 

Her cry was an equal mix of lust and annoyance, and he grinned in return. “Patience, mi amor,” he crooned, “waiting makes the reward so much sweeter, yes?”

“No.” Ban lifted her hips but he pulled away with a laugh.

“Let me prove it, then,” he said against her shoulder, nipping at her skin. His mouth journeyed down, tasting her, pausing to take each nipple between his lips and making her moan. He kissed down her stomach, until finally, he’d reached his destination. Ban felt his tongue lathe over her and she groaned “See?” his voice floated up to her and she struggled to focus on it. “Sweet.”

With his hands and his tongue he opened her, devoured her, until the pleasure was so acute it was nearly pain. Her muscles tensed and she said his name, harshly, forcing herself to focus through the haze of desire. She had a hand tangled in his hair and tugged on it once, getting his attention. When his head lifted, she almost sobbed at the loss.

“Mm. I see.” He smiled at her and drew his wrist across his mouth. She knew she’d be tasting herself on him for hours, and when he crawled up her body and pressed a kiss to her lips, she did.

He gripped her hips and positioned himself, entering her in one smooth forward thrust. Her moan was smothered by his lips as he started to move, rocking forward and back slowly until they were both panting, clinging to each other as if life depended on it. Releasing her mouth, his gaze met hers, bright and intense. He was close. She knew how to get him closer. 

“Zevran,” her voice cracked slightly, and she inhaled swiftly when he pushed forward again, hard into her. Still, she locked her eyes on his. “I need you,” the words were a whisper, almost lost in the sound of his breathing as they moved against each other, but he heard them. When he did, his eyes closed and he groaned, head falling forward. Ban lifted her hips and he held her up with one hand, the other braced against the bed next to her head. Finally breaking his control, her nails dug into his back as he slammed into her fast and hard and perfect. In a heartbeat she shattered around him, body arching, crying out as she flew apart, his name on her lips as she did. That was all it took for him to follow her, burying his face in her neck as he came, clutching her tight as he bucked and then stilled, buried deep inside her.

Their bodies were tangled together - her fingers still twined in his hair, her arm around his shoulders, one of his hands caught between her hip and the mattress with the other under her shoulders, holding her close to him.

Ban took a moment to simply lie under him, every sense overcome by the man who held her. She stroked his hair and he made that happy, low hum of his which she felt more than she heard. Then he levered himself up, causing him to shift inside her, making her inhale sharply. He smoothly withdrew from her and settled down next to her instead, one arm and one leg curled over her body. His head was pillowed on his other arm, face turned toward her, eyes closed. Although he looked peaceful enough to be asleep, his free hand was drawing lazy circles over her stomach and breasts; not teasing, just touching, petting her to bring himself comfort as well as to soothe her.

For a long time they simply lay quietly in each other’s arms, his touch feathering over her skin. Drifting off, Ban heard his voice, soft in the dark and quiet room. 

“There is a cliff in Antiva,” he said, his accent richer and more pronounced from sleepiness and lovemaking. “I killed a man there, once.”

“Do tell,” she replied, rolling onto her side. His hand continued to stroke her lazily and his head retested on his pillowed arm, as before, but his eyes were open and clear on hers when she looked at him. 

He continued. “It is steep, and overlooks the ocean. Far from the city, even the sound of the docks is only a rumble in the distance. The cliff, and most of the land around it, is nothing but wilderness. No one has claimed it, for it is not accessible by boat or ship, so it is no good for trade. The forest makes accessing it by land difficult for most, since there are no trails.” In an unusually reserved move, Zevran rolled onto his back, pulling his hand away and crossing his arms over his chest, staring up at the ceiling. Ban scooted closer to him, laying her head on us shoulder, prying one of his arms up and draping it over her. She saw him smile a little, but when it just as readily faded, she lifted her head to peer more closely at him. He looked pensive.

“Zev?”

“I was thinking. Perhaps,” he said to the ceiling, still not looking at her, “perhaps we could make a home there.”

Finally, his gaze slid to her, watching her out of the corner of his eye, unmoving. Ban propped herself up on one arm, her head resting against her hand.

“Why?”

“You miss the forest,” he explained softly, “and I miss the sea. It would be quiet, more quiet than that to which we are usually accustomed, true, but maybe you would appreciate some respite, no?”

Ban leaned forward, pushing herself up so she could look down at him. She’d seen that expression on his face once before - trepidation, uncertainty - when he’d told her he couldn’t keep seeing her in his tent because she’d come to mean too much to him. Ban did the same thing now that she’d done back then: she kissed him.

“Wherever you are,” she told him, “I find respite.” His hand lifted to he face and she saw some of the tension in his eyes dissolve. She nuzzled into his palm. “It sounds like a lovely spot, Zev. I would happily make a home there, as long as you’d be there, too,” she said. Then she thought about it for a split second, and it was her turn to grin down at him. “Naked,” she added. His smile lit the room, and then he was pulling her on top of him and capturing her mouth with his. 

That night - although there was very little sleeping going on - for the first time in weeks, Ban did not have nightmares. Instead, she dreamed of the scent of the forest and the sound of the sea.


	2. Stolen

Too many lost. 

The Chanter’s board in the Exalted Plains was sparse, but what notices it did contain were almost entirely pleas about locating loved ones who had gone missing since the Breach opened. 

_ “Please help! My husband, Tomas, went hunting three days ago and has not returned!” _

_ “My daughter Iresne wandered into the woods and I can’t find her! She is only ten…” _

_ “I fear my sister is dead. Ask for Alain in the tavern if you can spare the time to find her.” _

This seemed to be the constant state of Thedas. If not the Breach, then the mage uprising; if not anarchy, then Qunari invasions; if not a foreign army, then the Blight. Something was always there, lurking, ready to steal away the people one holds dear. Nothing she did, Baninion knew, would ever truly stop it.

Still, she pulled one of the notices from the board and looked at the Halla horn pendant resting in her other palm, its white bone stained brown with old blood. Pinning both back to the wooden sign, Ban hoped Iresne’s mother would find some peace in closure, at the very least. Not that it would heal her broken heart. 

“Warden Commander?” A voice, gentle as a breeze, drew Ban’s attention to the Chantry’s courtyard beyond the board. A young woman stood there in a Sister’s robe, hands folded at her waist. Everything about her was medium: medium height, medium build, medium-brown hair, medium comeliness. She seemed unremarkable in all respects, exactly as a Chantry Sister should be. Yet she knew Ban by sight alone. Interesting. 

“It would appear. And you are?” Ban walked slowly toward the Sister, hooking her thumbs in her belt just in case she needed to slide her dagger from its hidden holster at her waist.

The Sister did not smile, merely bowed her head. “A messenger. My Mistress has word for you. She asked that it be delivered in person, away from the crowd.” She looked up again and motioned to the Chantry, a slip of black vellum in her hand. “Follow me?” 

Ban held up a finger and the Sister waited patiently as Ban let out a short, loud whistle, watching for the returned signal. Out of the sparsely-crowded square, Zevran materialized, catching her eye. She tipped her head toward the Chantry, unsmiling, tucking a loose piece of dark hair behind her ear.  _ Five minutes, then come in after me _ , the wordless gesture told him. He nodded once and melted back into the throng.  _ Understood. _

“Lead on, Sister.” Ban turned and followed the young woman into the Chantry, weaving through a maze of pews until they came to an alcove, separated from the main room with a narrow door. 

The Sister opened the room and stepped inside, setting the vellum on a long bench. Ban approached her, glancing at the note which bore the deep purple wax seal of the Nightingale. Leliana. 

“Why couldn’t she send word with one of her birds?”

The Sister clasped her hands again. “The Mistress was unsure whether you’d be returning to the augur’s home soon, and the nature of the news is time sensitive. She also wished you to have…” the Sister’s pause was heavy with a meaning Ban could not discern. “...privacy.”

Ban’s brow furrowed, but the Sister was already moving out of the alcove. With no recourse other than to read Leliana’s note, Ban settled onto the bench and cracked the wax with a snap. 

_ “My friend, _

_ You have no doubt heard whispers of the battle at Adamant. It was a victory for the Inquisition, although a narrow one. That is not why I write this letter, however. We are en route to the abandoned Temple of Mythal to confront Corypheus and his army - I wanted this message to reach you, at the very least, in case we are not successful or I could not deliver it myself. _

_ Many Wardens were lost at Adamant. Some were able to be convinced to turn away from Corypheus’s influence, but only a handful remain, maybe in all of Thedas. Our Inquisitor was thrown into the Fade physically, along with her small team of allies. They succeeded in defeating the evil that grew there, but not without cost. And so I wanted you to hear it from me. From a friend.” _

Ban’s breath stopped, her heart squeezed in an icy vice. She knew what the cost was before she read the words, elegant and flowing in Leliana’s hand:

_ “Alistair is gone.” _

The door behind her opened and shut, but Ban didn’t look away from the paper before her. It said he’d stayed behind fighting the Demon in order to save the Inquisitor and Meare Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall. He died a hero, or perhaps was lost in the Fade, beyond anyone’s reach. He made the ultimate sacrifice, just as he’d always said he would, to protect the people who needed him. Leliana repeated that again, at the end of the note, before she wrote her farewell: he died a hero. 

Ban’s eyes burned and her fingers were cold as they gripped the letter. She sensed Zevran beside her, felt him carefully sink down next to her. Without a word, she handed him the note, braced her elbows on her thighs, and buried her face in her hands. All the suffering, the sacrifices, all the blood and death in her wake - she’d done it for the Wardens, for Alistair, for herself. Now, it seemed, she might be the only one left to reap the benefits, if she even succeeded in curing the Blight at all. And her few friends remaining, Leliana and Morrigan, were at the mercy of a monster who imagined himself a god. Too many already lost. Too many left to lose.

The paper rustled as Zevran folded it and tucked it away. His hand came to rest between her rounded shoulder blades, warm and vital, but all Ban could do was press her palms against her eyes, shaking her head, face still hidden.

“We should have a statue commemorated, I think, right in the middle of the Denerim market square: Alistair, in full Warden regalia, holding a sword aloft with one hand, a wedge of that vile Anderfels cheese in the other, looking vaguely confused but nonetheless as proud and handsome as ever.” Zevran mused, his voice tinged with what could have easily been mistaken as humor, but what Ban recognized as deflection.

“It would be ten feet tall and made entirely of obsidian,” he continued, nudging Ban closer to his side, sliding his arm around her shoulders as he did. “No, not obsidian, I think,” halting just long enough to plaster himself to Ban’s unmoving frame, she felt his breath stir her hair with his next word.

“Dawnstone.”

The mental image of a giant, glittering, pink statue of Alistair, piece of cheese in hand, towering over the shoppers in the Denerim market was too much. Ban snorted a muffled laugh and leaned into Zevran’s embrace, letting her arms fall back to her lap.

“Oh, gods, he’d love it.” Her eyes still burned, but she opened them, tilting her head back and resting it on his shoulder to stare up at the ceiling. “He’d love that.”

They sat in silence while death, yet again, found a home in Ban’s mind and heart. Eventually it was securely tucked away into a secret corner of her consciousness, somewhere she could find it later when she had the privilege to grieve. There was no time now for worry or for tears. The Blight still infected the world, tainted her blood, making every day a countdown to inevitable doom. Ban couldn’t let it happen. She had to make all of these sacrifices mean something.

“I will miss him, Zev.”

“As will I, mi amore,” he replied with a sigh. “He would see you succeed in your quest. Which, of course, you shall.”

Ban traced over a long, white scar on the back of her hand. She didn’t even remember how she got it; it was one of so many. “Etien believes we may, and Devon will do all he can, but we still need a way to channel so much old magic. Morrigan is sure it will be in the ruins in the Gamordan Peaks. I - we - just need to find it.” Closing her eyes, she felt suddenly exhausted, empty, heavy with a burden she’d never picked up but carried nonetheless.

Sensing her disquiet, Zev’s tone brightened, and he ran a finger along the line of her neck and shoulder. “Our dear friend Alistair was always a man of such… discerning tastes, yes?” He settled back into the bench more fully, pulling her along with him. “It is no wonder you drew his eye as you did mine. Just as it is no wonder I prevailed, in the end, despite his many charms.”

“Decided to distract me from my troubles by digging for salacious stories about Alistair and me, have you?”

She could hear the grin in his reply. “Is it working?”

Ban sat upright, looking over her shoulder at him out of the corner of her eye. “Actually, there is something I never got around to, well,” her pause was brief and loaded, “sharing.”

It was difficult to surprise Zevran, and even more difficult still to make him lose hold of the carefully crafted mask of grace and sexuality he wore at all times. “Pardon me?” he asked, slowly raising an eyebrow at her. “Surely, you are not implying what it sounds very much like you’re implying?”

She was, though the implication was not actually true - but tormenting him with the insinuation would do nicely to distract her from the gloom that had settled over her. Thus, she only smiled a little and shrugged half-heartedly.

Both of his brows came up at that. “You? And Alistair? When, exactly, were you going to divulge this?” He sat up as well, pivoting to face her. “And why did you not invite me?” he added, tone caught somewhere between a whine and a demand. Since it was taking all of her power not to laugh, Ban stood, staring down at his offended expression.

“Ah… well. Denerim? We - you and I - hadn’t… we weren’t together yet, Zev,” she explained, edging toward the door of the alcove. Zevran was frozen in place, by shock or insult, and simply made a sweeping gesture of confusion with both arms, staring at her. While she felt a little guilty stringing him on with half-truths, the perverse pleasure she took in seeing him knocked so completely askance was worth it.

“But me! I accompanied you to Denerim! Where was I, exactly, when this occurred?”

“Camp?” Thinking, Ban paused with her hand on the door handle. “Yes, you must have been at camp. We were at the Pearl, and Isabela offered to teach me to duel, and I’m a terrible hand at Wicked Grace, so I accepted her, ah, alternative offer.”

“ _ Isabela? _ ” he exclaimed, flabbergasted, shooting to his feet. Ban wrenched the door open and walked casually out of the alcove, leaving him sputtering behind her.

As she made her way past the Chantry Sister, to whom she only nodded politely, she heard Zev stomp up behind her. The dismay was radiating off of him so strongly it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust.

Trailing behind her, he continued, his words almost too quick to make out. “You mean to tell me that you and Alistair and Isabela, all together, became intimately acquainted, not but minutes away from where I sat in camp,” he ranted, “Alone. With Oghren.” 

They exited the Chantry, and Ban led him around the side of an unoccupied building, taking his face in her hands. Clearly upset, he stared at her with wide eyes, catching hold of her wrists, mouth opening as he prepared for another tirade.

“Zev.” His mouth closed, but the pout remained. “Yes. I slept with Isabela. And yes, she invited Alistair.” Before he could launch into another round of questions and accusations, she quickly continued. “He declined.”

His demeanor changed, almost returning to his signature feigned indifference, although he still looked miffed. “That is not so bad, then, but I remain baffled as to why you did not immediately send for me to join you. If, like you say, you and I had not yet fallen madly for one another, then I would not have turned down another chance to have Isabela. And to have you both? What more could a man ever dream?” His hands slid up her arms and over her shoulders as he spoke, clearly intending to draw her into his embrace, but Ban stilled.

“Another chance?”

A grin slowly spread across his face even as Ban released him. He did not return the favor, cozying up to her in spite of her stiff posture. “It seems you are not the only one who has secrets about your bedfellows, hm?” Not at all ashamed, Zev pressed himself against her, encouraging her bodily in reverse until she stood with her back to the wall of the building. His head dipped and he rubbed his lips against the corner of her jaw, wielding the most devastating weapon he had in his arsenal: himself. Her comeuppance was at hand, it seemed. Truly, she thought it would have taken him longer to come up with payback. Her mistake. 

When he spoke, his voice was as soft and dangerous as his touch, designed to coax her into complacency, to fog her mind so she could think of nothing else. “It is true. Isabela and I were lovers, but only briefly. We are much better as friends. Sometimes friends who happened to sleep together, yes, although never since I enthusiastically committed myself to you, mi amor.”

“Hmm.” Ban leaned away, her back arching over the arm he had around her waist so she could study him with no small amount of skepticism. His face was the epitome of charming innocence. “And when you were hiding in the Free Marches?”

“She offered, of course. How could she not? I am magnificent.” He gesticulated with the hand that had been busying itself with the ties at her midriff, sweeping it in a downward motion from his shoulder to his hip. “Alas, though she was similarly engaged with the lovely Champion who would have joined us, you must know I could think of no one but you.”

That was a revelation. “The Champion of Kirkwall? Meare Hawke? You could have slept with her and Isabela?” Ban snickered, and Zevran halted in his ministrations to peer curiously at her. “You missed out, love. Even I would’ve taken that offer.”

For the second time, Zev gawked at her. “Pardon me?” he repeated in exactly the same astonished tone as he had earlier.

She shrugged. “I’d have taken her offer. Isabela and the Champion of Kirkwall? Imagine.”

“I am.” His voice and gaze had turned wistful, but he narrowed his eyes at her. “You are a terrible tease, you realize. Now I will be unable to think of anything else for days. I will probably be stabbed in the back by some novice assassin who is still wet behind the ears, too distracted by the thought of your limbs twined with those of Isabela and her striking Champion, naked and glistening…” his sigh was heavy and he dropped his forehead to rest against hers. “Now I may die, and it will be all your fault for cruelly putting these thoughts into my head.”

Ban combed her fingers through his hair and tried not to laugh. “Poor man.” When she attempted to shift away, he slumped forward, trapping her against the wall. “Zev,” exasperated humor evident in her words as she went on, “pull yourself together.”

He grumbled and kept his face pressed to her hair, still subtly manipulating the ties at her waist to loosen. “I cannot. I am undone.” Obviously, he’d decided that if she pitied him enough, he could reap a few special benefits. Unfortunately for her, it worked, but mostly because it charmed her that he’d even think to try. 

“What if I told you,” she murmured, drawing the nails of one hand along the back of his neck and making him shudder, “that I would be willing to do it again?”

He froze. Slowly, he lifted his head, and his gaze bore into her. “Oh? Do elaborate.” A small huff of triumph escaped as he undid the ties at her waist fully, his hand slipping beneath her clothes and armor to rest low on her stomach, stroking the soft skin there. 

“Isabela. Again. With you.” Ban couldn’t keep her voice from going breathy and deep, but she did keep her eyes on his, and in her smirk was a challenge.

He took it. In a few frantic, practiced moves, he’d bared her center, making good use of her armor’s design. A placket of soft leather that he’d already loosened and her smallclothes, both of which he parted, were the only obstacles between him and his prize. When his hand took their place, he slid a finger into her and she inhaled sharply, gripping his shoulders to steady herself. 

“I accept your offer. But the greatest pleasure in all the world,” he purred against her mouth, moving his palm against her, “is feeling how wet and warm you are and knowing it is for me.”

“Enough,” Ban gasped as his finger curled, drawing a quiet laugh from him at the sound. “Now, Zevran, before I forget to feel bad for you.”

“I am yours.” In less time than it took Ban register the loss of his touch, he’d positioned himself at her entrance, and as she wrapped one leg around his waist, he buried himself deep in her.

Her groan was silenced by his mouth as he took her there, against the cold stone of the abandoned store, his hips moving with short, deep strokes that threatened to unbalance her with their force.

Voices drifted to them from the square only a few steps away, and Ban heard his breath catch on a swallowed moan. He broke their kiss and she buried her face in his neck, her control beginning to fracture. He must have felt her tighten and tense around him because he turned his head and, whispering, told her what he wanted.

She could no more deny him than she could stop her own heart, so when he told her to come for him, she did, unable to keep the cry from ripping out of her. He pressed her face into his shoulder with one hand to muffle the sound, his other hand still gripping her hip, keeping her balanced against the wall. Then he gasped her name, jerked his hips once, hard, and stilled.

His hand fell away as her leg unbent from around his hips, releasing him. Unsteady, Ban kept hold of his shoulders, and Zev carefully pushed himself upright.

“I also accept your apology,” he said, sending her a sly look before kissing her softly, equal parts rakish and reverent, “particularly since it was so skillfully given.”

With a snort, Ban began to do up her armor, scowling a little at the ease with which Zevran could right himself. By the time she had put herself back together, he was leaning casually next to her, simply watching her with a small smile. 

“You’d better.”

Zev studied her, gaze searching. “I do, in fact. When we succeed,” he brushed his thumb over her cheek in a whisper of a caress, “I will show you more than stolen liaisons in shadowed alleys and roadside inns.”

There was no room for the emotion that welled up from deep in her chest, no words that could accurately convey it to him. Too many lost. So much found. It had to be worth it. She had to succeed. All Ban could do was offer him a sincere smile and take his hand as they walked back into the light, the force of his hope almost enough to keep away the weight of her fear. 

“You’d better.”


	3. Panacea

“Can you use this?”

It dropped with a thud as the heavy book hit the smooth wooden worktable in a cloud of dust. Etien, an augur and longtime apostate mage-scholar, blinked owlishly first at the book and then at the woman in front of him, his hands frozen in the mid-stir of whatever potion he was concocting.

“Can. You. Use. This?” the woman bit out through clenched teeth, fists bunched at her sides.

“Ye-es,” Etien drew out the syllable as he reached for the book, gingerly flipping it open and studying the faded text. The woman pivoted on her heel, and Etien held up one hand, still perusing the book. “But,” he said, the woman freezing in place, “it is written using a cipher of some kind.” He glanced up to see her scowling over her shoulder at him. He simply shrugged and looked back to the text. “You’ll need to find me someone who can help break the code.”

“Where,” she replied, her tone as venomous and sharp as an assassin’s blade, “do you expect me to find one?”

Etienne had already turned away, waving vaguely at her as he went back to work. “The Chantry, perhaps? I don’t know; I rarely leave this hut, after all. You have contacts, Warden. Use them.”

Baninion stalked out of the door of said hut, slamming it behind her. She mounted her waiting horse, and with a tap of her heels, the great grey beast shot forward down the mountainside trail in a thunder of hooves. She bent low and forward over its neck while it ran, trusting in her mount’s instincts, encouraging him to run as quickly as possible. He vaulted a fallen tree, coming down hard on the other side without a hitch, the force of the landing knocking her heavy dark hair free of its ties.

As they flew through the dusk-shadowed mountainside, every beat of the horse’s hooves was a beat of Ban’s heart, a rhythm that repeated the same phrase in her mind over and over:

_ Let him be okay; let him be okay. _

\---

Ban rode all through the night, stopping only briefly to give her horse the chance for food and water. For her part, nerves kept her appetite at bay, but she forced herself to drink some watered-down brandy nonetheless. Just after dawn, Ban crossed through the gates of Val Royeaux where she left her horse with the stablemaster before dashing into the early morning market, already full of patrons. She wove her way through the scintillating, gaudy crowd, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for making elves so small and lithe by nature. Squeezing past an ornately bedecked couple -  _ sapphire velvet in the morning, really? _ \- Ban jogged through a narrow alley and around a corner, coming to a solid wood door. She banged on it three times, waiting impatiently, and had raised her fist to hit it again when it opened with a creak.

The face, half-hidden behind the door, lit in recognition even as Ban began to shoulder her way through. Opening the door and standing well back, the maid only widened her eyes slightly as Ban barreled past her.

Stopping short of a second shut door, Ban reached slowly for the handle, moving it as carefully as possible. She eased it open, all the frantic energy, the anger and impatience, draining away and leaving a grasping emptiness when she took in the scene before her.

An older woman stood working at a low vanity that held bowls and jars of various ingredients, a pile of discarded linen in the corner next to it. On the wall opposite the door was a narrow cot, next to which a middle-aged man sat, worrying a glowing rune with one hand, his other arm outstretched over the prone figure on the bed. A wan orange glow emanated from his palm as he moved it slowly over the figure’s left side, his eyes closed in concentration,

Ban closed the door behind her with a soft click, and the woman nodded at her in greeting. “Hello, Mahariel,” she intoned in a subdued voice.

Ban answered in kind. “How is he, Augusta?”

Augusta, a Chantry mother, spent the majority of her time in Val Royeaux running a boarding house for the “noble poor”, what the Orlesians called the working class inhabitants who were often homeless while between positions as footmen or cooks. Before answering, she dumped the contents of the bowl she’d been mixing into a jar, shutting it tight and handing it to Ban.

“He is well enough to take this three times a day, starting tomorrow,” Augusta answered. She motioned for Ban to step over to the cot, Augusta’s hand coming to rest on the shoulder of the man who still sat there, meticulously casting his magic.

The man’s eyes opened and he glanced up at them with a weak smile. “’Lo, Ban. Glad to see you.” He looked back at his charge, whose chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. “He’s knitting up well. Only woke up twice with the pain, but Augusta was able to calm him right down. Going to be just fine. He’s a survivor, this one.”

“He is at that,” Ban replied faintly. “Thank you, Devon.”

Devon’s arm pulled back, the light coming from him fading. His fingers curled and uncurled as he rolled his shoulders. “Now is as good a time for a break as any,” he said, standing carefully, clearly stiff from sitting for Maker knew how long. Devon, raised as a mortalitasi, used his exceptional understanding of death and reanimation to walk the fine line between necromancy and healing arts. No one in Orlais was better at regenerating muscle or bone, at infusing life into dead flesh. It made him an outcast from most Circles, but Augusta had readily hired him on to provide cheap and free healing services to the people she helped house and rehabilitate. 

Devon stepped past her and Ban briefly touched his arm in thanks. He patted her hand comfortingly before quietly letting himself out of the room.

Augusta, who had been cleaning up the vanity, also moved toward Ban and the door next to her, arms full of linens. “Mahariel, there are three jars of salve for him over there. Use it all up, even though he should be feeling fine after a day or two. Have him apply it before bedding down each night.”

Ban nodded, and her face must have given away her worry, because Augusta shifted the bundle in her arms so that she could reach out, giving Ban’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Trust me, child. He will more than survive this. You had him brought here with plenty of time for Devon to do his work.”

“When will he wake?”

“As soon as you wish to depart, though he will be unsteady yet. Just get him to swallow as much as you can of what’s in that vial by the salves. It may take a while for it to work, but be patient. Seven days bedridden can make even the strongest of us weak. After what he’s been through, you will need to take extra time, at least until he’s had a full night’s rest and a good meal.” Augusta reached for the door, looking back at Ban with a warm smile. “Which, by the way, is waiting for you. Just come by the kitchens.”

Ban nodded again - the only expression for which she had the energy - but Augusta had already exited the room.

First grabbing the vial of murky green liquid from the vanity, Ban sank down into the chair near the bed, her breathing as shallow and light as that coming from the figure lying there. She studied the vial, uncorking it carefully, waving it beneath her nose.

“Ugh,” she snorted, grimacing. It was clearly a mixture of extracts; elfroot, most likely, with something else included that had turned it acrid. Unfortunately, Augusta’s instructions had been to get him to swallow most of it, so that’s what Ban had to do. It probably tasted horrible.

She came to her knees at the head of the cot, steeling her nerves. It was ridiculous to be so shaky, so scared - he was fine. They had told her that he was fine. But as she searched his face, pale and inanimate as a stone statue, she couldn’t help her breath from hitching and her chest from clenching with the pain she’d carried for the last week. She’d been powerless to stop it, and she watched it play out again and again every time she shut her eyes: the moment she knew she’d lost him.

\---

Surrounded by darkspawn, Ban had been unable to reach him in time. She’d stared stared in horror, screaming his name, as an emissary alpha pulled back one clawed hand and struck, rending the flesh of his back and shoulder down to the bone, not once but twice, sending him crumpling onto the gore-strewn ground of the Deep Roads. An arrow struck her in the thigh but she only remembered running, pulling a long, wickedly curved dagger from her hip, throwing her bow down as she slashed haphazardly at the monsters in her way. She sunk that blade deep into the emissary’s neck, ripping it out to the side, half decapitating it. 

It fell as she did, her arms coming around the body on the ground, dragging him out of the tunnel and toward the camp from where her small band of reinforcements were already coming to aid her against the darkspawn’s ambush. They met her, took him from her, and she yelled to get him to the surface, get him help, to find Augusta. They left her in the tunnels, and she killed everything she could find until she finally collapsed, exhausted, among the piles of corpses.

Time moved differently in the Deep Roads, and Ban awoke some time later, sticky with blood, covered in bruises and gashes, the broken shaft of a darkspawn arrow still sticking out of her leg. Her throat was hoarse, and with a start she realized her face was wet with tears. How long had she been down there, wailing, sobbing for the man she was sure she’d just lost?

When Ban had finally dragged herself aboveground and found the scout her team left at the entrance to the tunnels, she learned the answer: two days. Only two days that had felt like an eternity, like a second, like time had come undone entirely. All because she’d lost him. Failed him.

She’d let Zevran die.

\---

Ban opened her eyes once more and reminded herself that she was in the boarding house. Zevran was alive, though at first glance he didn’t appear that way. His complexion was sallow, his hair matted, and the places where his skin and muscle had been ripped away were vividly crimson, mottled and raw. Still, he was whole. Ban rested one palm lightly on his chest and felt his heart beating, a little too quickly and not as strongly as she’d come to know, but beating nonetheless.

Holding his head carefully with one hand, Ban tipped the vial against his mouth with the other, pressing it against his lips until she saw some of the liquid snake its way between them. She waited until it had disappeared, and when he didn’t cough or sputter, she tried again, repeating the process and watching his throat work reflexively after each trial.

She set the mostly-empty vial next to her on the ground, pillowed her arms on the strip of cot by his waist, and rested her head on them, searching his face for any change, any sign that he was still in there.

There she waited, on her knees as if in prayer beside him, as the sun tracked higher into the sky and the room brightened with its light. It had been almost an hour, but each minute his breathing got stronger and deeper, color seeping back into his cheeks and lips, and finally, she saw his lashes flutter.

Ban remained where she was, observing him as he stirred. She knew when he’d sensed her presence, or at least someone’s presence, by how his entire body immediately stiffened. When she still did nothing, his eyes opened into thin slits, focusing on her and widening once he realized who was next to him.

Zevran tried to reach for her automatically but winced and hissed in pain when he tried to move the shoulder that had been so seriously injured. Raising her head from her arms, Ban instead took his hand gingerly between both of hers, lifting it to her cheek.

“Ah,” his voice croaked out, a ghost of itself from disuse and trauma, “I assume I won.” The joking tone, his standby during difficulty, struck Ban’s heart like one of the monster’s arrows. All at once she realized that she’d been holding her breath, not sure if it were real, if this particular nightmare was finally over. All at once the weight of what she could have lost - what she’d thought she’d lost - hit her. Tears, ubidden, welled and overflowed, and she couldn’t stop the choked whimper from welling up and out.

“I-” she started, voice catching as she fought against her own emotions.

“Shh.” Though he knew she generally detested pity or coddling, Zevran hushed her, his other hand moving carefully to rest on her hair. It took no coaxing at all for him to pull her head down to his chest, and she clung to him as tightly as she dared, releasing his hand. For a moment she allowed herself to grieve, her tears wetting the thin fabric of his shirt, her sobs smothered by his body, while he gently smoothed her hair.

It lasted only a few minutes, but Ban finally calmed, inhaling deep while still holding tight to him. Then she stood abruptly, facing away, reaching for the stack of clean linens on the vanity nearby. She scrubbed one over her face before turning back to him, doing her best to remain composed.

The difference between the way he looked at that moment and the way he had when she’d first entered the room was remarkable. Although the deep red scars were still present, they were less stark as the life seeped back into his skin. He looked tired, true, but the spark of charm had returned, and he appeared only vaguely concerned about his bedridden state. Still, Ban noticed the tightness around his eyes and mouth, the stiff cant of his neck, and the pain still lurking in his gaze. When she lowered herself down next to him, she simply took his hand again, holding it as it rested on his stomach.

“I was sure you were dead,” she said, staring down at their twined fingers.

“I am notoriously hard to kill,” he replied, voice scratchy but growing stronger. “As you are well aware.” When Ban didn’t respond, she felt him squeeze her hand. “Look at me, my love.”

She did as he asked, locking her eyes to his. Tears threatened again, and that made her angry enough that she forced them back, swallowing hard. She didn’t trust herself not to whimper again, however, so said nothing.

Zevran continued. “I am alive. Not exactly ‘well’, as it were, but certainly not dead. Furthermore, you are here now, yes? This means I cannot help but improve.” He raised an eyebrow as he took stock of his scars. “And there is much improvement to be done, I see. Which reminds me,” he said, surveying the room, “where are we, exactly?”

“Val Royeaux. At Augusta’s boarding house. I had you brought here, after you...” Ban cleared her throat, not ready to finish that particular sentence. “About eight days ago, now.” 

“And the book?”

With a frustrated huff, she scowled at the wall past him. “Yes, I delivered it to Etien. It’s why I didn’t get here until today. Why I wasn’t able to be there. Here. While you… recovered.”

“But recover I did, mi amor. If you had been unable to find or use that book, I would not have been able to live with myself.” He raised his eyebrows slightly and sent her a half-smile, all charm. Only Zevran would make a joke about his own death only hours after narrowly escaping it. 

Not sure whether to be exasperated or amused, Ban goggled at him. “I can’t believe you.”

“Most days I can hardly believe myself,” he retorted, the smooth tempo of his voice beginning to return to normal. “I am honestly too much. No one could possibly be both this handsome and this witty, but alas, here I am.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Lucky that I am here with you, yes?”

So beyond her own limits, Ban giggled, then looked momentarily horrified that such a noise came out of her. “Oh, gods. Yes. Yes, I am lucky.” She squeezed his hand. “So are you. If you feel up to it, I can bring you some of the food Augusta has prepared for us.”

“No, let us go together. I need to get the blood flowing again, as it were.” Zev shifted and began sitting up, waving her away when she reached to assist. He shoved himself upright with his good arm, looked down at himself, and sighed heavily. “I hope our lovely friend Augusta has prepared a bath in addition to a meal.”

Ban stood. “I will inquire. Stay here.” He snorted at her jest as she left the room, a smile on her lips for the first time in too many days. 

\---

To her credit, Augusta had already instructed her staff to be ready with a basin of clean, warmed water and a bundle of laundered underclothes. They had also cleaned and repaired Zevran’s armor, utilizing one of the nearby smiths in the marketplace. Within minutes of her return to his room, the staff had delivered both. 

Although Ban stayed to offer her assistance, he assured her that he was perfectly capable of bathing and clothing himself - adding slyly that she was more than welcome to simply watch, however - which she did, though more to make sure he didn’t topple over than to admire his “stunning physique” as he’d joked. 

A short time later, Zev was strapping on the last of his armor, with Ban gathering up his discarded clothing and slipping the salves and medicinal tonic into a small satchel. 

“Feel free to burn those clothes; there is no saving them.” He cast a sidelong glance at the bag over her shoulder. “And I must ask: what manner of potions are those? Nothing as offensive as the tincture I imbibed earlier, I trust.”

“Healing salves, mostly,” Ban replied as she ushered him out of the small room, glad to be leaving it behind. “A tonic as well, which, unfortunately, does seem to be a version of whatever was in the vial you drank.”

“Wonderful.”

They made their way leisurely toward the kitchens, Ban positioned on Zev’s good side. When he caught her hand in his as they walked, she didn’t object. She wasn’t sure she’d ever object to his public displays of affection again, in fact. 

Over their simple meal, the first one either had eaten in days, they discussed what was to come. Ban reminded herself that he didn’t deserve to be coddled like an infant or an invalid, and that he’d only get more hale as he pushed himself. Even so, that fear and despair she had carried was slow to dissipate; by the time they had bid their hosts farewell and had navigated the crowd in the market, she could almost feel the annoyance radiating from both of them at their situation. Frustration at the world and her inability to ignore his injuries made his tone sharp and hers sullen and cross - but she couldn’t hold it against him when she was acting just as petulant.

They had reached the stable, each silent and brooding, when Ban stopped walking. More by familiarity than choice, he also stilled, looking over his shoulder at her with a single raised brow. Ban took him by his unscathed arm and drew him into an empty stall at the far end of the stables.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, deliberately linking her fingers with his, watching him carefully. 

He sighed in return, leaning against the wall behind him, body slumping as if in defeat. “So am I. I am unused to being so…” he closed his eyes and sighed again, “frail. It is uncomfortable for me, but is no reason for me to act like a spoiled child.”

Ban closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her body carefully against his. He immediately returned the embrace, the wall behind him supporting them both. 

“And I’m taking my worry and fear out on you. No one is to blame. It’s just hard right now.” When his lips quirked and he snickered, Ban rolled her eyes, which he might not have seen but certainly knew to expect.

“It could be, with the right persuasion. Perhaps we should make certain that the damage to my body is not too extensive, yes?” His eyes opened and he looked at her with a well-practiced heavy lidded gaze and sly half-smile.

Well prepared for this particular trick, she simply let her head rest on his shoulder and relaxed into him. “No,” she replied firmly, and she felt him chuckle in return. 

She pulled back and straightened, knowing it would be too easy to waste daylight there in the stables, secure in his embrace. “We must head out. I sent word ahead to Mother Justine in Denerim. She is expecting us, and hopefully, we will agree to accompany us back to Etien.”

“Then let us depart.” Instead of releasing her, however, Zevran’s arms tightened. Then he kissed her, thoroughly and languidly, and it was many more minutes before they finally emerged from the stables and set off. 

—-

Progress was slow. They arrived at the chantry in Denerim three days later than expected, in part because of Zevran’s recovery, but moreso due to the demons pouring out of fade rifts all across Thedas. The best Ban could do was kill as many of the monsters in her path as possible, hoping the Inquisition forces would arrive shortly to permanently seal them. 

For his part, Zevran was essentially back to normal when they reached Denerim. All that was left of his ordeal were the pink, fading scars of his wounds. Augusta’s medicines and salves worked wonders, evidently. 

Mother Justine, while agreeing to go with them to break the cipher on the ancient Warden text, needed another two days to settle her affairs in Denerim. This brief respite gave Ban free time, something which was in increasingly short supply in her life. She planned to make the most of it. 

Thanks to her contacts in the city, she was able to secure a small, unoccupied row house tucked away behind the Alienage for the two nights. Once Ban had the keys in hand, she made a beeline through the main square, not stopping even to consider a gorgeous Ironbark bow on display there. Somewhere behind her Zev was perusing, no doubt picking up so-called essentials: brandy, wine, a new whetstone, and more brandy. Thankfully for both of them, he had already smooth-talked a merchant into delivering food and  supplies to their lodging ahead of their arrival. 

Ban unlocked the door and began stripping off armor and gear, leaving them to lay where they fell, a trail of leather and iron leading through the house. She found the shallow basin in the corner of the bedroom and immediately lit a fire and set water to heat. She’d gone weeks without a hot bath - only cold plunges into rivers or lakes when she was lucky enough to be above-ground - and this would have to do. 

She’d left the door to the house open, unconcerned about thieves. When she heard it shut, she knew Zevran had found her. She was dumping the warmed water into the basin as he strolled into the second-floor room, bottle of wine dangling from one hand, her dagger in the other.

“Your blade needs attention, mi amor.” He dropped gracefully into the chair by the fire and set the wine next to him on the floor, sliding his pointer finger of the edge of the blade and clucking disapprovingly when he pulled away without a scratch. 

Slipping out of what remained of her clothing, Ban ignored him, lowering herself into the small tub. It wasn’t deep enough to allow her to fully submerge herself head to toe, so she dipped her head back far enough to saturate her hair and made herself as small as possible. After a few minutes, she looked over at Zev, who was still toying with her dagger and sipping wine straight out of the bottle, watching her.

“I’ve been preoccupied, as it happens.” She held out a hand, dripping water onto the floor. “Wine.” 

He raised his eyebrows at her.

She sighed. “Please.”

He leaned forward, stretching it out toward her, but even in the tiny space, she couldn’t reach it. Ban narrowed her eyes and him and he only sent her an innocent smile. He wanted her to have to lean over the edge of the basin and reach for it, giving him a perfect view of her body as she did. 

Since she’d missed his sly teasing, she gave him what he wanted, levering herself out of the water just enough to snatch the bottle from him. After taking a long swig, Ban studied the bottle. Decent quality, nothing special, but it would do. Then she upended it, dumping its contents into the water, and tossed the now empty container back at him. 

“Was that really necessary?” he asked, catching the bottle neatly mid-air.

“No, but payback for making me get up just felt right somehow. Plus, Leliana claims it’s good for one’s complexion.” Ban cupped the purplish water in her hands and let it trickle slowly over her chest and shoulders. It zig-zagged over her skin, reminding her of the scars Zev now carried, so she smoothed their ghosts away. She heard him stand as she tilted her head back, soaking her hair again. 

“Ah, of course. What else should one do with a fine wine?” After resting her dagger gingerly on the mantle of the fireplace, he crouched next to her sad excuse for a bathtub. Before she could lift her head out of the water, he leaned forward, and she felt his tongue on her throat. “An excellent vintage, even watered-down as it is.”

Still reclined back, she let him catch her mouth with his, raising a dripping hand to his face. He took her wrist and pulled her up with him as he stood, rivulets of wine-tinged water tracing down her body and pooling on the floor at her feet as she stepped out of the basin. He licked along her jaw, taking her earlobe between his teeth and worrying it gently, all the while guiding her toward the bed behind him. 

“Zev. Zevran,” Ban said firmly, winding her arms around his neck. “I’ll soak the sheets.”

He pinned her with a fierce grin. “You will if I have anything to say about it, yes.”

Pivoting, he kissed her again, harder, and walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed. She let him push her onto it, mentally apologizing to the house’s owner for the pillows that were about to be ruined by her wet hair.

Zev stood over her and looked his fill as she reclined on her elbows on the bed, the warmth of the bath and the stain of the wine returning some of the pink to her skin. Then he shook his head and walked out of the room.

“Hey!” Ban called, sitting upright with a start. “What-?”

“Patience!” came his returned call from somewhere downstairs. 

Grumbling, she yanked the blankets out from beneath her and wrapped them around her rapidly-cooling body, glaring at the empty doorway through which he’d disappeared. Patience her arse. This was the thanks she got for playing his games; she was suddenly reminded why she generally didn’t indulge him.

Moments later she was still glaring viciously when he walked back into the room. Her brows came down in a hard line when she saw the pleased look on his face.

“What in Andraste’s name was that? If you think we’re going to-“ she began to lecture before he interrupted her. 

“I have a marvelous idea, mi amor!” With a flourish, he presented her with one of the last remaining jars of Augusta’s salve. “I think we would both benefit from the rejuvenating properties of this concoction, yes?” He handed it to her and she took it reflexively, still trying to keep up with his rapid train of thought. 

“I will gift you with one of my exceptionally skillful massages, but before that, you can make certain I have been thoroughly embalmed, as it were,” he continued without halting while simultaneously pulling off his clothing, “in order to make sure I finish healing most effectively.”

As he joined her on the bed, Ban couldn’t help but marvel at him. Either he had formulated this idea in the handful of seconds he’d stared at her in the bath, or more likely, this had been his plan since the moment she’d refused to apply it for him on the road, knowing he’d somehow manage to get her naked and slippery, too. He waited with an expectant smile on his face while she considered this, her annoyance vanishing. 

One hand holding the jar, the other keeping the coverlet closed about her, Ban decided what she was going to do. She released the blankets and let them fall away, baring her from the waist up. Although he was already reaching for her, she shifted to the side, motioning for him to take her spot on the bed. 

“Wonderful choice.” He said, scooting past her and flopping onto his back. She sat next to him as he stretched out languorously, lifting his arms to rest behind his head, one knee bent. If anything had ever made Ban want to believe in the Maker, it was him. Otherwise, it was just unfair to consider that only luck had made him end up so beautiful.

She scooped out a small amount of the salve and warmed it between her palms, smoothing one hand over his injured shoulder. As she worked her way down his arm, paying careful attention to where his skin was still the most raw, she could hear the pace of his breathing quicken. Her hands slid over his chest and toward his other shoulder, causing her to lean over him. Unable or unwilling to play by his own rules, Zev caught her and pulled her face to his, briefly kissing her hard before releasing her. The salve had slicked over her breasts and shoulders from his embrace, and it left her skin tingling. 

Ban was done playing. She swept both hands down his torso and stomach with what little balm was left on them, leaving glistening trails from her fingers. In less time than it took for him to draw a breath, Ban wrapped those same fingers around the hard length of him, swung a leg over his hips, and positioned herself over him. His groan was deep and primal as her body came down, taking him fully into her in one fluid movement. He grasped her hips as she rocked into him, rubbing herself hard against him, one of her hands on his forearm and the other low on his stomach while she moved. It was her game, now; she was in control, and as long as she stayed one step ahead of him, she could keep it that way. 

She drew the pace out, so focused on the feel of him and the sounds he made under her that time was irrelevant. His fingers dug into her flesh and he bucked, grinding against her, his back arching. Still, his eyes never left hers, even as she watched him strain against his desire to go faster, to take control. His recovery had clearly left him less resilient than usual, and for the first time in a long time, she watched his eyes darken and his muscles tense well before her own.

“Love, I-“ his voice was rough and low, and a moan rising in his throat made it catch. It stoked the heat building in her, hearing that voice; usually perfectly smooth, now so raw because of what she did to him. She bent forward, surrounding him with her body, locking her mouth to his as she gave him the speed and ferocity he wanted. He pumped his hips up into her over and over with all the force he possessed, and when she reared back with a cry as she came, he followed suit, shouting her name with his release. 

Ban collapsed forward and buried her face in his neck, his arms coming around her back and shoulders. He heaved a deep, satisfied sigh and cradled her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. She waited for her breathing to slow before lifting her hips, enjoying the strangled sound he made as he slipped out of her. They remained that way for hours, her body draped over his, her face in his hair, both finally finding rest and comfort after the harrowing events of the past weeks. 


	4. Beholden

Deep in the Kocari Wilds, in a hut hidden in the crevice of two rocky slopes, through air stagnant and heavy with smoke, someone was screaming.

A crushing prison of magic kept Baninion frozen and prone on the hard ground, but still her body arched and tried to writhe against its bonds. Pain like the lava of Orzammar coursed through her while Devon, crouched at her side, struggled with all the magical skill he possessed against the inevitability of her muscles tearing from the strain of her attempted convulsions. Over her, face impassive and stoic, Morrigan stood with one hand outstretched, almost relaxed in her stance. Her lips moved as she murmured ancient words whose true meanings were lost to even the most wise, but whose power was undeniable. Over and over, Ban screamed, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood, her eyes rolled back in her head, while those who loved her worked, waited, prayed, and tried not to listen as the Blight was ripped from her blood. 

Outside the hut, Etien cringed with each muffled shriek. He looked ill, struggling to focus on the ancient text in his lap, reading and re-reading it for any clues that may stop the screams. In stark contrast, Zevran sat casually, legs folded, meticulously sharpening and polishing the dagger Ban usually carried. He held it out in front of him, closing one eye as he scrutinized the sharpness of the edge. Tilting it this way and that, the curved blade caught the prismatic scar in the sky left behind by the recently-closed Breach. Satisfied, he laid the dagger flat against his palm, and in one swift motion, closed his fist around it and drew it sharply away. 

“By the Maker! What are you doing?” Etien exclaimed, scrambling to his feet to approach Zevran, who was still simply sitting on his side of the campfire, contemplating his bloody palm. 

He flexed his fingers as another cry emanated from the hut behind him, his blood oozing thick and dark to drip on the dirt at his feet. Although his eyes flicked up to Etien, he said nothing.

“Why would you do this?” the augur stammered, handing Zev a roll of fine gauze. 

For his part, Zev merely shrugged and began to wrap his injured hand tightly. “There are only two things that can properly distract a person from almost anything, my friend,” he explained, carefully ripping the spiderweb-like fabric and tucking in the end securely. “Sex,” he handed the remaining gauze back to Etien as he continued, voice calm and even, “and pain. I am very much in need of distraction tonight, thus,” he indicated to his palm with his uninjured hand. “And even if you had an offer of sex, I would have to kindly decline. That makes my options somewhat limited.”

Etien, still pale and shocked, shook his head slowly. “If you insist, assassin. I am somewhat skeptical of your methods, but in no place to argue them.” A wail pierced the night and Etien jumped, retreating back to his bedroll and picking up the old text that he’d been brought many months earlier.

Levering himself off the ground, Zevran sauntered toward the boy at the workbench nearby who was very carefully and precisely mixing ingredients for a healing potion. It had to be hand-distilled for potency, Morrigan had said, so she’d set the only person she claimed to trust to concoct it - Kieran, her eleven-year-old son. 

“My young friend, you have been at work for hours now. Perhaps it is time for a break, no?” Zev suggested, resting his hip against the workbench. The boy just peered at him. Zev raised a single brow and offered a charming smile. Kieran’s facade remained unchanged.

Zevran sighed. “Truly, dear boy, you must require sustenance, at the very least. I will join you, and regale you with stories of my grand adventures and scandalous loves.”

“Mother told you to leave me be,” Kieran said, but his tone held a thread of interest. Zev intended to capitalize on that. 

“Ah, true, but she is busy and you must be hungry, yes?” Motioning to the fire, Kieran shrugged, inspected his distillation, then shrugged again and followed Zevran. They settled down, Kieran digging into a pack stuffed with bread and cheese. As he took a large bite of the latter, Zevran couldn’t help but grin. His father’s son, it seemed.

“Much better, I trust. Now, what kind of story would you like to hear?”

The boy considered, chewing thoughtfully, a small, dark-haired twin of the man whose genes he carried. “Actually, I have a question.”

Preferring the sound of even inane small talk to the tortured cries that reverberated unexpectedly every few minutes, Zev motioned for him to continue. “By all means, my young friend. Ask whatever you desire.”

“Mother has told me she doesn’t yet wish for me to know who my father was, but…” Kieran ripped off a chunk of hard bread, breaking it into smaller pieces as he spoke, “did you know him, too? Mahariel told me she did, since he’d been a Warden like her.”

“Yes, I did. He was a fine gentleman, strong and kind, as I am sure you no doubt will be yourself in a few years. Although,” Zev’s lips quirked in a wry smile, “perhaps it is best that you seem to take after your mother in most other ways.”

Kieran nodded. “Mother said he was a hero. Like Mahariel.” It had been a struggle to get the boy to refer to Ban as anything other than “Warden-Commander” when they’d first arrived at Morrigan’s home. Ban immediately asked that he call her by her given name, but Kieran refused. Then, she’d delivered a lecture about how she was essentially his aunt - a comment about which Morrigan snorted but did not correct - and how no one called her by her title unless they were a subordinate or stranger, and Kieran could be neither. Finally, they’d settled on Mahariel, her clan name. It was deferential enough for the boy who’d been raised on stories of the great Warden who’d travelled with his mother, but familiar enough so both Ban and Kieran could feel connected. They were, after all. His birth saved her life, and because of that, Zevran figured Kieran was as close to family as any of them could claim.

“Yes. Both your father and my lovely Warden were - that is, are - great heroes. They sacrificed much, but in return, saved many, including myself. I have no doubt that your charming mother will tell you more of him, in time.” Zev watched as Kieran finished his meal and stood, brushing crumbs from his trousers. Remaining seated, Zev waited patiently as Kieran studied him, searching for something no one but the boy could fathom. Seeming satisfied with what he found after a moment, Kieran offered Zevran a small smile, which was returned in kind.

“Perhaps. Thank you, ser Arainai,” the boy intoned politely, well-coached by his mother on social graces. Zev waved his hand as if brushing the words away. 

“Ah, no thanks are necessary. It has been a very long time since anyone has called me by that particular title. It has been even longer since it was not said in jest, or right before they tried to kill me. If you must call me anything, call me Zevran. That is the only name I have taken for quite some time.”

Kieran again shrugged - his favorite expression, apparently - and walked back to the table that held his potion. “As you say, ser Zevran.”

While they’d conversed, the cries from the hut had settled into a roiling cadence of groans and whimpers. It wasn’t better, but it was less jarring at the very least. Zevran watched the marred sky shimmer, clenching and unclenching his wrapped fist. Eventually, all was silent, and it remained that way until the sun began to rise.

Everyone else outside the structure had taken to their tents, but Zevran remained next to the fire’s dying embers. He was used to staying still and watchful for hours at a time, although he much preferred to take a more hands-on approach to ensnare his assassination targets. Still, he was on high alert when the door to the hut scraped gently against the frame, and he turned his gaze to it without moving. 

Devon exited, heading straight for his tent without seeming to notice anything around him. Morrigan followed, composed but clearly drained. She caught Zevran’s eye and looked down at him with a slight frown. 

“The lovely Morrigan appears at last. You do not have tears in your eyes, but neither a smile on your lips.” Though his voice was teasing, it was also soft, the tone forced and unconvincing.

Her frown deepened even as her eyes lost their hard edge. “I see your talent for overstating the obvious remains unchanged. How very comforting that fact is.” When she did not sit, Zevran instead stood, coming fluidly to his feet despite having been motionless for hours. She drew him away from the tents, voice pitched low. “She yet lives, but it is a tenuous thing. I…” Morrigan’s tone turned bitter, and he knew it was not for him. “I cannot wake her.”

“What can be done, dear sorceress? Surely you have a secret arcane skill hidden away in one of your many tomes.” Panic, hidden behind a curtain of confidence, spiked hard somewhere deep in his chest before it settled into steely determination. 

“If I were a dreamer,” Morrigan responded, “perhaps I could find her in the Fade and help anchor her to her physical self. Alas, I lack the ability, and for all his talents, Devon is no Somniari. I am uncertain ‘tis possible to force her to awake, and even so, it may do more harm than good to try.” She looked toward the hut, then back to Zev, and there was regret in her gaze. “We have no way of knowing if the spell worked to cure the Blight until she wakes. I am sorry, Zevran.”

He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder, a fleeting touch. “Do not apologize, my friend. You have done everything in your power, I know. There is still hope, as long as she draws breath. She will wake.” They both turned toward the hut, approaching it slowly. “I am certain of it. Have you ever known our lovely Warden to give up on anything?”

“I suppose you are right, assassin. We will simply have to wait and see.”

—

The breeze carried salt and sea, and when it caressed her face, it was like a lover’s touch. Ban inhaled, catching only the subtlest perfume of pine from the forest at her back as she looked out over the crashing waves behind the edge of the cliff. Somewhere, a bird cried out for its flock.

It was beautiful. She drank it all in, savoring the air and the sun and the sound of the waves. When a soft voice floated over to her from the trees, Ban only turned her head.

“You do not belong here.”

Unhurriedly, she pivoted to face the figure. It was a person, but its features were indistinct, its details fuzzy, like trying to make out a portrait under a few feet of water. Ban considered it before she responded. 

“No, I think I don’t. Because I’m in the Fade. Aren’t I?”

The figure approached her, its details still refusing to make themselves clear. “Yes. But you are no spirit. You are not recently departed from your world. You are no wandering dreamer, visiting this place. How did you come to be here?”

The wind off the sea ruffled Ban’s hair, sending the dark strands dancing, loose around her neck and shoulders. “What are you? Which manner of spirit?”

“I had a name, once, but it was too long ago to have any relevance for you. I am a spirit of curiosity, of knowledge and learning. Usually, I watch, accepting the gifts of the dreamers, experiencing the images they carry with them into their slumber. You have no dream, no old memories, only this place. It is unusual. I wish to investigate.”

“You’re right. I am not supposed to be here. I was doing a spell, a ritual that was supposed to fix everything.” Ban studied the white-capped swells as they beat against the base of the cliff. “If I failed, I’d be dead. I must have succeeded. Then why am I here?”

The spirit hovered barely outside of her line of sight. “That remains uncertain. If you agree to give me a memory, I will help you find your way back.”

Her brow furrowed. “Give? Will I forget it, then?”

“No. But it will no longer belong only to you. Its echoes will reverberate subtly here, for as long as this place exists. Nothing may come of it - or there may be consequences.” The spirit began to drift away, and Ban followed it through the trees. “Is what waits for you on the other side of the Veil worth the risk?”

Images flashed in her mind, rapid and bright. All the people who’d depended on her. Everyone she had failed to save. The warm, safe circle of her father’s arms when she was still small. The clash of metal against metal as someone shielded her from a Darkspawn blade. The taste of a wicked grin that appeared only for her. The dream of a respite, someday, claimed on a cliff by the sea. 

“Yes. It is.” At her words the spirit paused in its forward movement, listening. “Name your price.”

A ghostly hand lifted to her face, and in a rush, Ban felt all her breath leave her. She recalled another smile, young and carefree and mischievous, and with a pang of regret, it was gone. The spirit, having taken its prize, began to move away again. She could only follow in its aimless footsteps, all the while wondering: of all the things she had experienced, seen, and done, why did it choose to take her memory of Tamlen?

—

Someone was screaming.

Zevran bolted upright, scanning the quiet interior of the well-appointed room. He had brought Ban here, to the keep at Amaranthine, the most secure location he knew, and here they’d stayed for weeks. Though it was mostly empty, some of the Wardens who had survived Adamant did not go to Weisshaupt, choosing instead to remain behind in Ferelden, working to rebuild the order there. It had been almost two months since the last time Ban has been awake, and Zevran left her side only long enough to gather information or supplies that might help her find her way back from beyond the Veil. 

It was late in the day, but he had returned from Orlais early that same morning, empty-handed and frustrated. Divine Victoria could do nothing to aid her longtime friend; indeed, her resources were spread thin as it was, searching for an apostate mage and preparing for the imminent Exalted Council. He was running out of options. If this land held no solutions, he would be forced to venture farther, to find a Somniari, to Tevinter. But that was a dangerous place for an elf, and he couldn’t yet bring himself to consider leaving Ban behind, especially knowing he may not make it back. It would be like trying to separate himself from his very shadow. Still, soon enough, he may have no choice left. 

In the room, all was silent. Yet her cries echoed in his head, as they would for many weeks to come. It had been a dream, he knew, scanning the figure that lay curled next to him. Delicately, he smoothed her hair out of her face, and laid back down next to her, listening to her breathing. It was strong. She would wake. Gathering her close, his face buried in her hair, Zevran did what no good assassin would ever do: he prayed, to any gods that might be listening, for life.

—

Baninion was ten, and she was bored. Skipping rocks over the placid surface of the small pond, she jumped in surprise when Tamlen barreled out from the wilderness straight at her. 

With just enough time for her to leap back, he skidded to a halt next to her, panting and chortling. “Hah! Finally, I surprised you. You won’t be a better hunter than I will if you didn’t even hear that coming, Ban!” While he was clutching his sides and giggling like an idiot, Ban considered the flat stone in her hand, then his smug face. But he was her best friend - and he wasn’t wrong - so she threw it into the water instead of directly at him.

“Actually, I will be the best hunter in the Clan, just like mother was. Together, we’ll protect the clan, keep it safe from any men or beasts,” she retorted. As his laughter calmed, they leisurely walked together back to camp, Tamlen picking up a long branch and thwacking it against the trunks of trees as he passed. Ban had a thought, a worry for which she couldn’t quite find the right words. “Tam? D’you think you’ll ever leave the clan?”

Thwack. “No, I don’t think so. Mother and father are here, my friends are here. You’re here. Besides.” thwack, thwack. “The clan needs me. So do you, if you don’t want to get eaten by a bear.”

Thud. Ban punched him in the shoulder, not hard, but with enough oomph to knock him slightly sideways. He rubbed his arm and laughed at her again. She shook her head and looked away before he could see that she was laughing, too. “It’s a quiet forest. Neither of us will be eaten by anything.”

Her mother had been attacked and killed when she was very small. Ban remembered little about her - long hair, pale gold and braided with beads and charms, the scent of dry grass and something spicy. Soft skin, soft hands, rough leather against her cheek. Subdued laughter like fog in the branches. Then Mother had left, been taken by death itself. Many of her clan had since left as well, seeking security in the cities. Some days, Ban wept, angry with herself, because she feared everyone would leave her, even Father and Tamlen.

She rounded a corner, ready to challenge Tam to a race back to the fire pit to outrun her thoughts, but instead of her clan’s camp, there was only a vast and empty grassland. Ban turned to Tamlen, confused, but he was gone, too. Glancing down at her hands, she saw they were crisscrossed with scars, pale and toughened with use. A warrior’s hands. It came back to her then, where she was, who she had become, what she’d done and failed to do. Tears welled but she wiped them roughly away, only barely registering the presence of the spirit behind her where Tamlen had seemed to be only moments before.

“Why did you choose him?” Ban demanded without looking back, angry that the old wound had been reopened.

The spirit replied. “He was the beginning of many things. To learn your story, one must start where it does.” Its arm raised, pointing to a softly-shining point of light far across the field. “There is your ending, if you are ready to embrace it.”

Hesitating, Ban was suddenly unnerved. “Is there more? After?”

“Yes and no. It depends.” The spirit’s voice was fading, and by the time Ban turned her head to reply, it was gone. 

With no choice left, Ban did what she always had. She moved on, moved forward, and stepped into an uncertain future.

—

The wan sunlight filtering through the cracked window was almost too much to look at directly. As Ban’s eyes adjusted, she took in her surroundings. Vigil’s Keep, the room she’d occupied so many years ago, nearly unchanged by time or use. She rolled onto her back, wincing at her stiff, aching muscles. Her entire body hurt, and when she tried to sit up, she was too weak to simply lever herself upright. Instead, she rolled into her side and pushed herself up with an arm, unsteadily and slowly, all her will focused on keeping her body from sagging back down into the mattress.

She was also completely alone. There was a faint din of activity outside the walls, but her throat was so dry and raw that Ban knew the only sound that would come out would be a whisper.

There did seem to be supplies, though. Elixirs sat neatly on a small table across the room; her clothing, weapons, and armor were tucked into an open chest at the foot of the bed, looking well-maintained and clean. Surely, Morrigan hadn’t been playing nursemaid, but Zevran and Devon were nowhere to be found. Someone had to have been forcing potions down her throat, and her bedding and the loose-fitting tunic and breeches she wore were obviously freshly laundered. Even her hair, while unkempt, had clearly been washed at some point, and her skin carried none of the grime of travel as it had when she’d arrived at Morrigan’s hut. But where was the person to thank for these kindnesses? Where was anyone? 

A swift clamor of anxiety set Ban’s heart pounding. Her dreams - no, her walk in the Fade - reminded her of all she had lost, and of her fear of being left entirely alone. That wasn’t possible, not without signs of a struggle, of which there were none. There had to be some reason she was in Amaranthine and not still at Morrigan’s home in the wilderness. Some reason why Devon had left, why Zevran was not by her side.

The only thing to be done about it at present, Ban rationalized, was to get up and find out. Attempting that, unfortunately, proved more difficult than expected. She was weak, and just as she would begin to struggle to her feet, she’d have to sit back down again and catch her breath. It took six tries before she made it upright, leaning heavily on the wall for support, but she carefully made her way to the potions on the table. Picking one up, she scrutinized it, uncorked it, sniffed it, and recognized it as an elfroot concoction. Ban chugged the entire bottle, bracing her arms on the table to support her, eyes closed, while she waited for it to kick in. There she stayed for many minutes, breathing through the tremors in her legs and back as life infused them.

Voices came from the hallway outside, muffled and indistinct. Then, nothing but footsteps, and Ban remained still as the door next to her swung inward. She was hidden behind the bulk of it, only her eyes moving as someone entered.

They must have realized the bed stood empty, because their footsteps ended abruptly. A tense, weighty second passed, then another, until they finally crossed the threshold and came into view.

Though she was feeling only slightly stronger, Ban turned, resting her hip against the table, leaning back on it with her hands supporting her in an attempt to look nonchalant. Upon hearing her movement, Zevran turned his head just enough to catch her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Welcome back,” she rasped. “Did you have a good-“

Her sentence was cut short as Zev took one long stride, wrapped both his arms around her, and crushed her against him, trapping her arms at her sides and burying his face in her shoulder. He was as tense as she’d ever seen him, and when his grip on her didn’t loosen, she was forced to fully lean back against the table simply to keep herself upright.

“Zev,” her voice, quiet and hoarse, seemed to jolt him out of his stasis. His head came up, and just as quickly, he sealed his mouth to hers with a kind of ferocious desperation she’d never seen from him.

She made a small sound, catching his attention. When he pulled back enough to look at her, she gave him her best reassuring smile - which, unfortunately, had seen little use so was not particularly effective.

Ban kept her tone gentle even as she tried to subtly extricate herself from his embrace. “I need to sit down,” she said, concerned that soon her legs might no longer support her. 

Zev made no reply, simply stepped back, caught her by the waist, and lifted her. It was unexpected, since they were of a similar height and build, but Ban supposed it was easier when she wasn’t wearing twice her weight in armor and weaponry. Instead of setting her on the bed, he perched on the edge of it, settling her in his lap. It seemed as though he couldn’t release her, and for what it was worth, Ban didn’t really want him to.

Catching his chin with one hand before he could busy her mouth again, she searched his face. “So quiet. And your dark circles are almost as bad as mine.” She brought her hand up and brushed a thumb over his cheekbone, just beneath the dark smudges there. 

“As they used to be, perhaps,” he finally spoke, voice low and unexpectedly fragile, face etched with a sadness she knew was because of her. “You have been asleep for a very long time, my love.”

“My body is still weak from the ritual. It feels like it must have been at least a week since Morrigan put me under.” She stroked his face, wanting to erase the despair there, the building worry for him like a lead weight in her stomach. Her beautiful, golden love had gone so dark, and she feared she was the cause.

He drew a finger along her jaw and down her throat, shaking his head. “It has been much longer.” Tracing along her collar bone before resting his palm against her sternum, he continued. “Forty-eight days. It was… a very, very long time,” he repeated, gazing down at where his hand lay over her heart. 

It always made Ban deeply unsettled to see Zev’s natural brightness go dim. It was even worse, however, because she knew that she was the source of the shadows on his face, behind his eyes. Her touch fell away from his face, and she looked down, considering her options. She’d made it back, found her way out of the Fade, in large part because she knew he waited for her on the other side. She had to do something to show him what that meant, and there was one way to tell him everything without ever needing to say a word. 

Taking a page from his book, she gave him her best innocent smile and shifted, straddling his hips to bring herself to face him. He glanced back up to her face but did nothing, clearly uncertain. Ban wanted to allay that concern in the most efficient way possible, so she slid her hands over his stomach and up his chest to his shoulders, leaning forward until her body fit tightly to his. “Then we have quite a bit to catch up on,” she breathed, voice rough with something entirely unrelated to disuse. At that, she gave him a gentle shove back, and his eyes lit as she followed him down.

They more than made up for lost time, and when he flared to brilliant life at her touch, they were both revived.

—-

The only way to know if the ritual had worked - if Ban was free from the Calling - was to see if she could still sense the Darkspawn hordes. That suited her fine, for she was tired of being cooped up in the Keep, having been awake for nearly three days before the local healer could arrive and clear her to travel. Nearby, the deep fissure in the earth into which she’d descended so many years ago to find the Architect still stood open. As Ban approached, she tried to listen, to feel that sick crawling sensation that came upon her when Darkspawn were nearby. But there was nothing.

“Can you sense them?” Zev asked, standing on his toes to peer father into the chasm. 

“No. Either there are none here,” she replied hesitantly, “or I am no longer tainted by the Blight.”

“Hm. Perhaps we should delve deeper into their lair? Are you…” Ban shot him a look of furious warning, so Zev continued seamlessly, waving a hand as if erasing his original thought. “Do you think they have all retreated farther from the surface?”

“I’m not sure. No Darkspawn activity has been reported here for some time, but I had hoped that the proximity to the Deep Roads would have been enough. I would not prefer to go back underground again for a while. Maybe,” Ban led him down to the entrance to the tunnels, wrinkling her nose at the stale, putrid air emanating from within, “we can wait and see?”

“As you wish, mi amor,” he said, leaning against a rickety wooden scaffold, arms crossed over his chest. He appeared momentarily distracted by a thought as Ban pulled her bow off her shoulder and readied her quiver. “If you are indeed cured of the Blight, does that mean you are no longer a Grey Warden?” he asked.

A brief silence followed as she considered. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it? Truthfully, I wouldn’t grieve the loss of that title.” Rustling came from somewhere beyond the shadowed entrance, and Ban tensed, only to relax again when a rat scurried out.

Zev’s blade whizzed past her, almost too quickly to see, and pinned the rat to the ground with a sick thud. Ban raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged. “Target practice, my lovely Warden. Ah!” He stepped around her, crouching to yank his dagger out of the rat, wiping it clean. “It occurs to me that I will have to find a new moniker for you if indeed you no longer carry the taint of the Wardens.”

Sheathing his blade, he approached her, stepping close enough to rest his hands on either side of her waist. She kept hers on her hips, her bow dangling from her fingers. “So you would. Any ideas?”

“Many. Although none in particular about what to call you when we are out and about in more public settings.” His smile flashed, wicked and teasing, but Ban’s entire focus had shifted just beyond his shoulder. He noticed it a fraction of a second after she did - scraping, shuffling sounds were floating out of the tunnel.

Ban had her arrow trained on the opening in less time than it took Zev to spin and drop to a crouch at her feet, blades drawn. They waited, the scuffling becoming louder. 

Two hurlocks charged into the light, and Ban’s arrow pierced one through the eye, dropping it mid-step, before the second reached them. As it did, Zev pirouetted around it, neatly slashing its throat even as it tried to swing its mace at Ban’s outstretched arm. It collapsed, and Ban cocked her next arrow, ready for more.

None came. All was still and quiet, and Ban strained her ears for any more sounds. Zev rose gracefully to his feet, wiping the bloody daggers on the corpse before him. For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe - and more importantly, she didn’t feel. They’d surprised her. She couldn’t feel them.

Zev simply observed her, patient and unobtrusive. When she suddenly laughed, he grinned wide. She spun toward him, and with that joy, her close-held darkness was suddenly unobscured, like parting clouds revealing a midnight sky. The allure of it stole his breath. 

Then she reached for him, claiming his smile with her mouth, and her laughter tasted of freedom.


	5. Double-Ace Flush

“Hold still.” Leliana snapped, holding Ban’s head firmly with one hand and shoving another pin into her hair with the other. 

“I have been still for hours, and I am at my limit,” Ban shot back, resisting the urge to kick her friend right in the berobed shin. “Enough! It will simply have to do, Leliana.”

Leliana drew back, critically surveying her work. Ban stood before her, hands fisted on her hips, scowling. Hand not yet donned her Divine vestments, Leliana could almost have passed for the Sister that Ban has met almost a dozen years ago in a tiny tavern. Almost. That Leliana would have been nicer. This Leliana was cutthroat in her attempt to make Ban invisible to the Council attendees currently mingling in the ballroom.

Thus, Baninion Mahariel, former Warden-Commander, the Hero of Ferelden, found herself standing in the Divine’s private chambers, clad in the stiff and uncomfortable livery of a footman. Her hair had been braided and pinned so that it was completely hidden within the outfit’s large hood. The layers of muslin and thick moss-green brocade were cut for a man’s frame, but since her slight, leanly-muscled build had few enough feminine dips and curves, no one would notice the discrepancy unless they looked closely at her face. It wouldn’t matter terribly if they did, though - the three-quarter mask, simple and delicate, covered much, including the majority of her unique vallaslin. She could be any elvhen servant, and therefore not worthy of any attention, which suited her just fine.

“Do you approve, oh Divine Victoria?” Ban couldn’t stop the sarcastic tone from sneaking into her voice, but she sent Leliana a half-smile, enough for Leliana to see the truth behind the sharp edges.

She got an eye-roll in return.“You’ll do.” Leliana reached for her vestments, then ushered Ban toward the door. “Remember, you are only here to observe, and when I am able to step away without calling attention at the end of the opening gala, make your way back here and I will find you. No one must know you’re attending, Ban.”

“As I prefer it.” Leliana only sighed and patted Ban’s arm, but Ban stilled her with a touch to her wrist. “I expect you to tell me why you brought me here. Leliana, you said you needed me, so here I am. You know I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

Briefly, she softened and was the Leliana Ban remembered. Then it was gone, and Divine Victoria was nodding at her. “Yes, yes of course. When everyone has left for the night, I promise I’ll explain everything. Until then, please try to enjoy yourself. Listen for gossip. Critique this season’s truly horrid color choices. Drink the wine. Avoid the ham.”

With a gentle shove, Ban was out the door, and it clicked closed behind her. She looked down at the silver mask in her hands and heaved a sigh. 

“It suits you, you know.”

She glanced up. Zev materialized from a shadowed corner, his mask already in place. Her breath hitched in spite of herself at the picture he made. Though the garment was fashionably cut, it was just a little to severe, a little too stark. The material was a softer, lighter version of the silk she wore, dyed a green so deep it was nearly black and trimmed with burnished gold. The mask was also gold, covering his eyes before curving sharply around his left cheek, coming to a point at the corner of his mouth to hide his tattoo. His hair had been expertly coiffed up and back.

Ban was momentarily annoyed that he always managed to be prettier than she was. But she supposed she did get the better end of the deal - she got to look at him all night long, after all. 

He walked slowly toward her, clearly assessing her from head to hem, and she stayed still under his perusal. Finally, he looked her in the eye, and his smile spread, slow and approving.

“You make an exceptionally attractive man, it would seem. Though I do wish our favorite Divine would allow you to wear one of those low-cut ball gowns - you have such lovely shoulders.”

“Praise all the Old Gods that she did not, then,” Ban replied, already beginning to feel trapped by the high collar and close-fitting jacket. She was at the Winter Palace surrounded by privileged shemlen, without any weapons except a small, sharp dagger hidden at the small of her back, dressed up like a child’s doll. If it were anyone other than Leliana, and if she hadn’t asked specifically for help from a friend, Ban would have burnt the summons to the Council and laughed about it afterward. 

Yet, here she was. Zev took one last long look at her then came to her side and took her arm in his, holding her much closer than was proper. She hip-checked him and he laughed but did not release her. 

“Allow me these last few, precious seconds to have my hands on you, mi amor. Once we enter the gala proper, I will be forced to maintain a respectable distance,” he stated solemnly, though they both knew he’d break that promise at every given opportunity.

“Leliana would be quite put out if you ruined her covert operations tonight, and not only because you’re an assassin and ought to know better.”

Zev huffed. “If it is only for a night, I suppose I will manage. After, you must assure me that you will give me time to find all the secret places this suit hides before you rip it to shreds and set it alight, yes?”

“No promises.” Ban retorted, but she smiled. Suddenly, she remembered her mask. Drawing him up short just as they were about to reach the exit of the private quarters, she groaned. “I have to put on this… thing. I can’t hold it in place and tie it at the same time without it going askew. Would you kindly put those dexterous hands to good use?”

That question was a mistake, because immediately, his gaze darkened. “Oh?”

“No. Not what I meant. You know very well we can’t afford to have you distracted.” She proffered the mask and he took it, his pout all charming innocence. 

“I? You wound me,” he said, lifting the mask to her face. She held it in place, and he stepped behind her, pulling the ribbons taut and tying them securely. Before he moved back to her side, however, his hands came to her hips and he fit her against him, pressing a kiss to the bared skin at her nape. Then he bit her gently and smoothed the sting away with his tongue, making her gasp. 

Ban couldn’t be angry, but she also couldn’t dally here too long. She would much prefer to play his game than the one being carried out in the ballroom beyond. “Be. Good.” Pulling the deep hood up, Ban became completely anonymous. Though Zev lingered behind her for a second longer than necessary, he acquiesced. All that was visible of Ban’s face was her mouth and lower jaw, which she kept set in a hard line as she opened the door, waiting as he sailed past, stepping into the sea of opulence that was the grand ballroom.

Leliana’s official invitation listed Zevran as an Antivan artist of moderate renown in his homeland but with little presence outside its borders. Still, when the Divine spends months praising a handful of paintings and sketches that had been gifted to her by her dear friend, Lady Montilyet, it came as no surprise when that same artist was invited to the opening gala for the Exalted Council. Ban was to be his footman, keeping her in relatively close proximity but granting her the freedom to leave his side, disappearing into the invisible parade of servants when needed. Though Leliana gave her no particular instructions other than “stay alert” and “don’t be recognized”, Ban knew her friend well enough to read the subtext - something was afoot, and Leliana didn’t yet know exactly what. That in itself was cause for concern, as Leliana always knew what was at play behind the scenes. As far as she could guess, Leliana had asked Ban to attend the council not only for whatever favor she had yet to ask, but also because she needed someone she could trust implicitly - and someone who was an outsider - who could potentially discover information the Nightingale's own spies could not. 

The air in the ballroom was stifling, and it only got more so as one hour turned into two, then into three. By the end of the third hour, Ban would have gladly accepted a six-month Deep Roads excursion if it meant escaping the palace and getting out of her hot, itchy jacket and trousers. As she wove past jewel-encrusted heiresses and bedecked barons, she realized she had lost sight of Zevran for the fifth time that evening. It had taken her less than five minutes to fetch him more wine - which he had not actually been drinking, merely surreptitiously emptying into potted plants as he passed them - but when she returned to where she’d left him, he was gone. 

Ban clenched her teeth, balancing the small tray with the wine as she dodged the many bodies milling about the room. Finally, she spotted him. He was flanked by the triplet handmaidens of the Empress, so identical in their garb and mannerisms that it was almost impossible to tell that they were not, in fact, sisters. By the time she silently appeared at his side, he had thoroughly and shamelessly charmed each of them, subtly coaxing information out of them between compliments and euphemisms. 

He took the wine without a word, so Ban tucked the tray into the crook of her arm and stepped back, becoming invisible once more, listening.

“It is terribly shocking that no one noticed her go missing, is it not?”

“Not only that, but no one even seemed to care!”

“Truly, the welfare of our most vulnerable citizens ought to be held in higher regard. It is quite a shame, really.”

Their lilting cadence was unnatural at best and downright uncomfortable at worst, but Zevran only nodded, somehow managing to convey sincere regret despite the mask hiding the majority of his face. “Very true. You are each as magnanimous as you are wise and twice as lovely. I thank you for your concern over the welfare of my brethren. I am certain your court has only the elves’ best interests at heart.”

The one on the left fluttered her hands. “We do.”

The one in the center smiled prettily. “Of course!”

The one on the right tapped her closed fan against her collar bone, both to draw attention to her best assets as well as to convey thoughtfulness. “We would do no less.”

Zevran lifted a hand to signal Ban to return to his side, then handed her his mostly-full wine glass. “Though it pains me to leave such visions, I am afraid I must make ready to depart,” he simpered, bowing slightly at the waist. “My dearest thanks for sparing time for a humble artist, my ladies.” 

They murmured their acknowledgments as he moved away, Ban following closely behind until they came to a mostly-empty nook near the garden entrance. Since there was no one within sight to notice, Ban tossed back the unfinished drink in her hand and deposited it and the tray she still held onto a nearby credenza.

“Something is happening here,” Zev began, but Ban held up her hand to halt him. Instead of replying, she took off her mask, threw back her hood, and unbuttoned the top four buttons of her coat. Then she took a deep breath and sagged back against the wall.

“I would prefer Archdemon to this,” she grumbled, rubbing her hand around her throat and the back of her neck, her skin sticky with sweat. “Two, even.”

Zev leaned casually against the wall next to her, appearing impossibly comfortable despite being just as tediously dressed as she was. “Morrigan would not thank you, mi amor,” he responded, snaking an arm around her waist. It had been hours since he’d done more than glance in her direction, and she knew he’d take this opportunity to rectify that. “What have you learned?”

“There are at least three separate factions playing at subterfuge tonight, not including the spies every wealthy lord and lady brings with them to hunt for blackmail,” Ban answered, resting her hands on his forearms to prevent him from tugging her any closer - she was warm enough as it was. 

His head tilted to the side as he processed that information. “That lines up with the gossip making its rounds among the nobility. There are whispers of servants disappearing when they ought not to be, and one was discovered unconscious in a closed-off wing when her sister went to find her. Although it could simply be a case of a tryst gone wrong, there are far too many discrepancies.”

“The Inquisition would have its spies here tonight. So would Empress Celene. There is at least one more main player, though I was not able to figure out anything more than that it involves the majority of the staff.”

“Intriguing. We will bring this information to Leliana. Surely she will be able to use it,” Zev remarked in a distracted tone, bringing a hand to the back of her neck. He lowered his head as though to steal a kiss, but at the last minute seemed to reconsider and instead blew gently on her exposed skin, chilling it. She suppressed a shiver, sending him a stern look, but he already had his mouth pressed to the hollow of her throat. Her head tipped back and for a moment, she gave in completely, making no move to stop him as he licked the salt from her skin, his lips tracing the delicate underside of her jaw, his body trapping hers against the wall. Then the moment ended, and she brought her hands to his shoulders, holding him - and herself - back. 

Clearly unhappy, he kissed her swiftly, before she could duck under his arm and put some distance between them. Then he fisted his hands on his hips and frowned at her. 

“There are many guests who are playing out this exact scene in other shadowed alcoves. It is in the interest of authenticity that I engage in a similar pursuit, no?”

With great reluctance, Ban refastened the buttons are her collar. “Please trust me when I say that I would much rather be here with you than spend another second in that crowd,” she replied, gazing unhappily at the mask as she picked it back up. “Unfortunately for both of us, the party will draw to an end soon, and we need to be ready to find Leliana so she can finally tell us why we are here. Then, I promise you, you can spirit me away to any dark corner you like and have your way with me.” Ban held the mask to her face, spinning away from him and motioning for assistance. 

“You do know just what to say to cheer me up,” his voice carried softly over her shoulder as she felt him tie her mask once more. She pulled her hood up and turned to face him, drawing a finger along the sharp point of his asymmetrical mask. He caught her hand and kissed it, and she led him out of the alcove, only tugging her fingers free when she heard the voices of the other guests.

By the time the crowd began to disperse, Ban had already identified an unassuming hallway leading to the library as their easiest exit point. Under the pretense of delivering a message, Ban left the ballroom first, making her way to the library without drawing a second look. Moments after she entered, Zevran arrived, and they carefully climbed over the balcony railing, dropping down to the ledge below. They were easily able to find the open window near the private quarters that Leliana had prepared for them, and once they’d slipped inside, all that was left to do was wait for Divine Victoria to finish her goodbyes and retire for the evening.

However desperately Ban wanted to use those free moments to tear off her costume, she refrained, only removing the mask and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chaise. Zevran discarded his as well, draping himself over one of the plush sofas, legs outstretched. Though he held out a hand in invitation, Ban only raised a brow at him, crossing her arms and perching on the edge of a dresser. With a huff, he let his head fall back, eyes closing. 

They waited in silence until finally, Leliana entered. 

“Pardon my tardiness,” she offered graciously, her Divine Victoria persona still in full effect. “I was caught up with some pressing matters.”

“Do not think to apologize, holiest of holies,” Zev replied without moving, eyes still closed. Leliana cast a glance at Ban, who only shrugged.

“How gracious of you! Please, don’t trouble yourself on my account,” Leliana returned, words dripping with sarcasm. Zev smiled and remained exactly as he was, all of his best behavior already exhausted.

“However much I love to listen to the two of you bicker, if we don’t wrap this up soon, I’m going to set myself on fire and take the entire palace down with me if I don’t get out of this gods-forsaken suit.”

Leliana sighed. “Trust me, I understand. Let us get straight to business, then.” She removed her vestments, then tapped on an adjoining door. The woman who entered was familiar, though not because she was unremarkable enough to be mistaken for nearly anyone. No, this woman Ban recognized because she’d been the one to deliver one of the worst messages Ban had ever received: the news of Alistair’s death. It was the Chantry Sister, though she was garbed simply enough tonight. 

“Sister,” Ban greeted her, causing Zev to finally open his eyes enough to regard the new arrival. 

“Hero of Ferelden.” 

Ban shook her head. “No, please. Just Mahariel will do.”

The woman nodded. “Mahariel, then. We were never formally introduced. Please call me Wren.”

Zev made a small sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Must we persist with the bird theme, my darling Nightingale?”

Leliana ignored him. “Wren has been in my employ for many years,” she explained to Ban. “However, when I became Divine, I offered her the chance to become what I had been for Justina.” Leliana paused, glancing between the two women. “She is my Left Hand, so I hope you can trust her exactly as you would trust me.”

“Perhaps not exactly, but enough.” Ban clasped Wren’s hand briefly in her own, neither woman feeling the need to fake niceties where all that was needed was respect and acknowledgment. “You’re welcome to call on me at any time, Wren, for whatever good that may do you now that I am no longer a Grey Warden.”

“That brings me to my next point,” Leliana offered, hesitancy in her voice where usually there was only steely resolve. When she did not continue, only watched Ban carefully for a moment as though weight her options, it was enough to draw Zevran out of his indolence, bringing him to his feet to stand beside Ban.

“Mistress,” Wren said softly, and Leliana spared her only the shortest of glances.

“Yes. I know you can no longer technically call yourself a Grey Warden, but your contributions and abilities cannot be so readily disregarded,” Leliana explained, folding her hands before her. “You slew an Archdemon to end the Fifth Blight, kept the Darkspawn war from spreading past Amaranthine, and may soon be able to cure the Blight itself. You were a commander, a hero, and most significantly, you are my dear friend. There may be no one I trust more, in fact. That is why I brought you here,” she said, taking a breath before continuing. “Divine Victoria has a Left Hand. I would ask that you consider being her Right.”

Ban stared at Leliana. Then she looked at Wren, who offered her only a small smile. Finally, she turned her gaze to Zevran, who appeared intrigued and thoughtful. 

When she looked back to her friend, Ban realized that this meant more than simply becoming the leader of the Divine’s personal forces. It meant that Leliana was asking for her help, and that carried more weight than any title. It also meant that Leliana, and probably the others in her circle, needed the kind of help that Ban was trusted to provide. That worried her. There was only one answer Ban could give, and she gave it sincerely. 

“I accept.”

She felt Zevran’s hand at the small of her back, a subtle comfort. He knew she was giving up any hope of peace, of that quiet place they’d discussed so long ago. Yet there he was, at her back.

“Oh! That is, thank you, Ban. Mahariel. I suppose I would call you that now that you are to be my Right Hand, no?”

Ban smiled and put a hand lightly on Leliana’s shoulder. “Call me what you wish. I work for you now, remember?”

Leliana laughed, though the sound was short-lived. “True. But you are tired and uncomfortable,” Leliana continued, moving away as Wren disappeared through the door with a nod. “Please, make use of this suite. I will be just down the hall. All is your things are in the dresser here. None of the guests will be about until well after sunrise. I will send someone to wake you before that so you can take your leave in peace.” Leliana paused at the threshold, looking over her shoulder at Ban, and something in her gaze seemed relieved. “Thank you.”

She stole through the door before Ban could reply, pulling it gently closed. Ban walked over and turned the key in the lock, setting it aside. 

Working quickly, Ban undid the row of buttons down the front of the jacket, but before she could peel it off, Zevran caught her wrist.

“Allow me. It wouldn’t do for the Right Hand of the Divine preoccupied with being her own valet, after all,” he intoned, sliding his hands beneath the heavy silk, pushing it off her shoulders. She shrugged free of it but otherwise remained placid, only assisting where necessary as he freed her next of the rough muslin undershirt, then unfastened her trousers with a skilled, practiced touch. At that, she stepped back, and before she had struggled out of what remained of her foodman’s garb, he’d already bared himself to the waist and was behind her, efficiently unplaiting her hair until it fluffed around her face in loose waves. 

“How is it,” she remarked, letting herself be pulled back against his chest, her back arching as he cupped her breasts, “that you are so much more efficient at managing my hair and clothing than even Leliana?”

“Practice.” As his lips trailed along her shoulder, his hands busied themselves with her breasts, and she leaned back into him. “And a passion for such things. Specifically, you.”

He spun her around and claimed her mouth, but it was more gentle than she’d been expecting after the ordeal of the evening. When she deepened the kiss, he pulled away only enough to speak unhindered. 

“I wonder,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper, “if you are the Right Hand of the Divine, does that make me the Right, Right Hand?”

Ban smiled and brushed her lips over his. “You’d be a Left Hand, if anything. But no,” she answered, “and right now, there’s only one hand with which you need concern yourself.”

The hand in question slipped past the barrier of cloth at Zev’s waist and wrapped around the length of him, drawing from him a pleased hum. In a single fluid movement, Ban came to her knees, shoving the trousers down his hips as she did. Then her mouth was on him, his fingers clutching her hair, and in minutes she had him gasping for breath. 

He drew her up, kissing her hard, and together they landed on the closest available soft surface - the chaise. Hurling the masks away, he pulled her atop him, half-seated upright against the back of the chaise, and she straddled his hips, kneeling over him, lowering herself until he was fully seated within her. She held the back of the chaise for support and began to move, his hands on her hips, guiding her pace. She rode him fast and hard until they were both panting, and when a broken moan escaped her, he caught it against his lips, plundering her mouth. Able to angle her pelvis just so, she ground herself against him, gripping the couch behind him as she moved. When she felt the bite of his nails on her back as he reached his climax, it was over; she came hard, curled over him, only seconds after he cried out, head thrown back, body tensing before everything relaxed all at once.

Her forehead rested on his shoulder and he stroked her back, soothing the scratches he’d left there. They were content to remain that way for some time, until finally he nudged her off and led her to bed where they both collapsed, exhausted.

They slept for only a handful of hours before being awoken, as Leliana had promised. They’d just exited the grounds of the Winter Palace when Wren appeared, missive in hand. 

“The Divine regrets that she cannot be here to see you off, but some more urgent issues recently came to light that require her full attention,” she said, handing over the folded black vellum. “These are your new orders, Mahariel. Stay near Val Royeaux - more information will be delivered soon.”

As Wren disappeared back through the gates of the estate, Ban cracked the violet seal on the note and read it quickly, with Zev leaning on her shoulder from behind so he had eyes on it as well. 

_"Mahariel,_

_ You will be acting as my official representative in Tevinter. Remain close until the Council is over. You will accompany the delegate back to Minrathous along with a small complement of soldiers. The outcome of the Exalted Council - as well as other matters about which I will brief you once the Council is concluded - will decide the exact nature of your work in the Imperium. It will be dangerous, regardless, but you will have some small measure of diplomatic protection. _

_ I encourage you to take the interim time to relax. _

_ -DV _

_ (Also: Both now and in the future, Zevran is welcome to accompany you as an officially-sanctioned assistant to the Right Hand of the Divine. Please make sure he reads this missive if he has not already done so.)” _

Zev unfolded himself from around her shoulders as Ban tucked the message away. The early morning air was misty and cool, and she took a deep breath, letting it fill her lungs and cleanse her. They walked in silence, Zev catching her hand in his, each welcoming the change from all the bodies and voices of the previous day.

Finally, Ban spoke.

“I can’t take another day spent among the Orlesians. We can set up camp in the wilderness just beyond the city. I’d rather take my chances with wolves and bandits than with courtiers.”

“Agreed. Perhaps we can recreate some old memories as well?” he replied, shooting her a sidelong glance that was loaded with innuendo.

Ban shrugged a shoulder but returned his meaningful look. “Maybe. Can you find us a Qunari Sten and a swamp witch?”

He laughed. “I like the way you think, mi amor.”

Offering no reply, Ban simply squeezed his hand, linking their fingers, enjoying the still air as dawn began to pinken the sky. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, there was no weight of obligation around her neck. Though it sounded like the Inquisition was dealing with a potentially serious matter indeed, it was not yet Ban’s concern. It seemed that she finally had a small measure of peace, of freedom, at least for the next few days - potentially weeks, even, until the Council ended - and she planned to make the most of it. 


	6. Epilogue: Bellanaris

The sun had begun its descent, casting the sky in a riot of orange, gold, and pink. A gentle breeze carrying sea air sent the evergreen trees swaying, their music like the rush of water. Somewhere far below, waves lapped languidly against a rocky outcropping.

On the edge of the cliff, only a stone’s throw from the cabin perched at the border of the forest, Baninion sat and tried very hard not to think.

Her respite was drawing to an end, and Ban refused to let herself waste any of it on considering the problems of the future. Soon, she would have to travel into the Tevinter Imperium; soon, she would have to put herself in danger yet again to serve the greater good. But before that, she would sit and enjoy the sun setting over the sea the way that only Antiva could compose. Ban focused on that blazing horizon for a long time, but still her worry desaturated the world, and she eventually shut her eyes on a long sigh.

Something else only Antiva could create had disappeared into the forest an hour ago, but when Ban heard footsteps in the soft grass and felt something delicately settle onto her head, she opened her eyes to find a contented gaze fastened on her own.

She lifted a hand, and her fingertips brushed over silky petals and smooth leaves. Wild roses, all smaller than her thumb, twined together and woven into a circlet that now rested on her hair. 

“Thank you, Zev.”

He lowered himself to the grass next to her, resting his back against the side of the cabin like she did, folding lean legs beneath him.

“You deserve beautiful things,” he said simply, taking her hand in a gesture so casual it was almost done without conscious thought.

“What about you? Or are you pretty enough already?”

One of her favorite things, Ban mused, was watching Zevran grin. Not because it was charming - it was - or because he had a lovely smile - he did - but because in the last year or two, whenever he did it, the almost-imperceptible lines at the corners of his eyes crumpled and deepened. And every time they did, she was reminded that she got to see those smile-lines appear, a map of his life that she had been invited to follow.

So when he grinned at her as he did just then, lifting a rosy crown of his own and placing it on his sun-streaked hair, warmth bloomed in her chest.

“Of course I am. But I have never had any trouble gilding the lily.”

“A gilded lily, are you?” Ban held herself still as he twisted, laying himself down until his head rested in her lap with his back flat and knees bent, staring up at her. Once he’d settled, one of her hands still clutched in his and resting on his chest, he closed his eyes.

“Why not? Though perhaps not half so delicate.”

She drew her fingers through his hair, so much longer than hers and left unbound, and fanned it over her thighs. “And me?”

“Hm.” His eyes remained shut as he considered. “An orchid. One that blooms even in deep shade, drinking moonlight like water.”

Ban snorted softly. “How desperately poetic.”

His eyes opened. “You disagree?”

She shrugged, tracing the sharp curve of his jaw with her finger. “Absolutely. I feel some kind of shrub may be more appropriate. Sturdy. Hard to kill. Useful.”

One golden brow rose. Ban shrugged again in response. After a beat, Zev lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to it, returning it to its place over his heart.

“You are worried.” His voice was gentle and quiet, held no trace of judgment.

She sighed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m being an ass. I’ve liked being here for the last few months - no threats, no danger. Just you and the forest and the quiet. But I can’t stop thinking about Tevinter, the unpredictable danger of it, no matter how I try.”

“It will be a risk, yes, but nothing in comparison to the others you’ve faced.” When he reached up, Ban leaned down, and he brought her face to his. His mouth was as warm as the rest of him, and he wielded it leisurely until he released her with a satisfied hum.

But she still felt the tingle of anticipation, so akin to panic, on the back of her neck. “I can’t be invisible there. Even disguised, I will be very clearly an elf. And it will be even more dangerous for you. At least I have the protection of the Divine - of our Divine, at least - as her official Right Hand, but you don’t. Even with our small party of soldiers and the envoys from her magister friend to meet us at the ship, it still won’t be truly safe for either of us.” Ban wound and unwound a length of his hair around her palm as she spoke. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“As I have mentioned before,” Zev said, disentangling himself from her embrace and pushing up into a kneeling position at her side, “I am notoriously hard to kill.”

“Even so.”

Catching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he studied her. “But it is the uncertainty that worries you more than the danger.”

It was not a question. “Yes.”

Zev looked out over the cliff, and Ban watched as he narrowed his eyes, obviously weighing and measuring an idea before finally settling on a decision. 

He nudged her wordlessly; she moved so he could settle cross-legged between the V of her outstretched legs, facing her head-on. 

“Then allow me to restore some of your peace of mind.”

Her brows drew together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Instead of an answer, Zev took each one of her hands in his, his forearms resting on her thighs. Then he did something that surprised Ban more than she thought possible after over a dozen years of partnership. 

“[Ma lath, lasan ara'len sul saota,” he began, and Ban’s breath caught. “Lasan ara'sal, sule ha'lam'sal'shiral.](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F3553883%2Fchapters%2F8051220&t=MGMyYjVkZDRiMWEyNTY2NjY3ZjkxOTk3YzE2YzY1YWRiNGYyMTk4OSxmVkh1RUlxeg%3D%3D&b=t%3As0Xsqy9zLHUF9fluwSG7UQ&p=https%3A%2F%2Ftheaiobhan.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F190786673676%2F14-days-of-da-lovers-day-12-watching-sunset&m=0)”

_My clan mate, I give you myself to make one from two. I give you my soul, until the end of life’s journey._

“But you don’t…” Ban struggled for words, and for once, Zevran simply waited patiently, watching her with an unfathomable expression. “You spoke elvhen.”

“I did, yes.”

“They’re vows.”

He nodded.

She gaped.

“Does this mean you wish me to stop?” His words were hushed, hesitant, and they pierced her foggy mind as unerringly as one of his daggers.

“No! No, that’s not what I mean. I only…” Ban searched his face, and when she spoke again, her voice was muted and cautious. “Are you sure?”

His answer was a small smile, and Ban’s heart leapt into her throat. 

“Shall I continue, then?”

All she could do was nod and forget to breathe.

And then, he spoke.

“Telas ema em, ar giran ara'len, y la'var nuvenir, sul'eman emma asahn sul'ema. Telas raja em, ame len'revas, y jusul'anan na i'viren isalas, i thai juem on'el rodhe, garal o emma da'lav.”

_You cannot have me, I own myself, but while we wish, I give what is mine to give. You cannot command me, I am a free person, but I shall serve you in the ways you need, and the fruit shall taste sweet, coming from my hand._

Her language, her people, in his tones - and those promises, meant for her - were things Ban never dreamed she would hear. Tears threatened. “We have no Keeper,” she said, but he only shrugged.

“What need do we have of one?”

“And there is no one here to witness.”

Releasing one of her hands, he brushed away the tear from where it had escaped down one cheek, catching the droplet on his thumb. “You are here. I am here. That is enough.”

Her laugh was weak and watery. “So practical.”

He chuckled. “That may be the first time anyone has ever referred to me as such.”

Ban took a long breath, staring down at their joined hands. When she looked back up, she focused on him and finished what he had started.

“Ma juveremas sael'prear or emma dil, sael davathe or emma hyn. Sasha mar melin julahnan fra nydha; sasha mar inan juithan fra dhea. Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma. Telam'aven judirtha or em'an. Var vas druast i'em'an, i alinen tel'juhartha ebalasha. Juleanathan i myathan na ove min'sal'shiral, i su uth'then'era.”

_You shall have the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine. Only your name shall I cry during the night; only your eyes shall I see in the morning. I shall be your armor, as you are mine. No bad words shall be spoken of us. Our bond is sacred with us, and others shall not hear my grief. I shall worship and praise you through this life, and into uth'then'era._

He reached for her, pulling her into his lap, her legs folding around and behind him. Her arms encircled his neck; his, her waist. She rested her forehead against his.

“Sylaise enaste var aravel,” she murmured, saw his smile through her lowered lashes.

“Lama, ara las mir lath.” He kissed her, feather-light. “Bellanaris.”

_Sylaise’s blessing upon our home. From now on, my purpose is to love you. For eternity._

For a long moment, they sat in complete, perfect silence. Then Ban opened her eyes, as she had not but a handful of minutes earlier, and saw the same contented face as before. Zev looked so quietly happy; she was anything but peaceful.

“Oh gods.” Her laugh bubbled out unbidden, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to find annoyance at the outburst, however, and smothered another stupid giggle. “Zevran.”

“Yes?” She had never seen him quite so pleased. Normally, she was the absolute antithesis of his exuberance. Today truly was a day for firsts.

“We’re _bonded_.”

“Oh? We weren’t agreeing to purchase a horse?”

Another giggle stuck in her throat. She swallowed it back, tried to appear unamused. Failed.

“I would not prefer to be called Arainai, all things considered.”

His frown was swift and vehement. “I agree.”

“Then I suppose,” Ban said slowly, sliding her hand back around his neck, distracting herself from the spark of nervous energy that was so unfamiliar to her, “you could be Mahariel.” She paused. “If you want.”

His smile bloomed again and she was immediately reassured by its presence. “I do want. It is a much nicer name, no?”

“Even though I have no clan left, not anywhere that matters.”

“So we will be our own clan. Others may join if they wish. Perhaps we can adopt Kieran.”

Ban looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea, though inevitably Morrigan will argue over it.” 

“Truer words, mi amor.” His hands at her low back stroked, drawing up her thin tunic until he found her skin, his touch warm and welcome. 

She blinked up at the slow-moving clouds, gilded by the setting sun. “Bonded,” she mused, shaking her head a little. It was both comfortable and novel to consider. After all that had happened, she figured bonding was impossible. “I never expected to be anyone’s wife, you know. I’m not sure how I feel about the title.”

For his part, Zevran only tilted his head to the side, considering her. “You are mine. Call it what you will. Wife, if you wish. Partner, in everything. Love, forever.” His lips brushed over hers again, but this time, their touch was sensual and provocative against hers in a familiar way to which her body immediately responded. When her breath hitched, his grin sharpened.

“And I am yours,” he finished, decisively claiming her mouth.

For many minutes after, while the sun began its final descent and stained the sky indigo and the discarded rosebud crowns perfumed the air, Ban could think of nothing but him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Many thanks to Project Elvhen for the Dalish marriage vows. They are close to my heart since they were based on some traditional Irish vows, which I also utilized a variant of in my own wedding. Click through the link here or in the text to read the translation in full. Additional thanks for Project Elvhen’s Tumblr post regarding the vows from the in-game ceremony.)


End file.
